


•■ *^ : 





<*-♦♦ .-isflfifc \/ /Jfe- **„.♦♦ •• 














.* v 



>">. 





*>"v 



<*, ••••" <$ 





























3,°"^. 



»°v 







\ ^6« • 














*+ 



^ "'ISP 6 * V< * ° f 







» 1 >-v AWXUrt HI 



4 O 



'**0< 









LIFE AND THOUGHT: 



OR 



CHERISHED MEMORIALS 



OF THE LATE 



JULIA A. PARKER DYSON. 



EDITED BY 

MISS E. LATIMER. 



(^ 



BOSTON: 

WHITTEMORE, NILES, AND HALL. 

1856. 






^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1856, by 

WHITTEMORE, NILES, AND HALL, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 
ALLEN AND FARNHAM, PRINTERS. 



TO 

THE IMMEDIATE FAMILY; 

TO 
THE SURVIVOR OF THE DESOLATE HOME; 

TO 
WARM AND ADMIRING FRIENDS; 

THIS VOLUME 

OP 

LIFE AND THOUGHT 

IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 



PREFACE. 



To keep alive the memory of the gifted and the 
good, we must not suffer private feeling to become 
the sole depositary. We are forced to yield, what 
exclusiveness would prompt to retain ; what the 
tenderness and delicacy of a fond affection would 
gladly appropriate to itself. But the reflection of 
excellence falls gratefully on the universal eye, and 
stirs to healthy action the universal heart. Com- 
mon humanity asks every aid that can be given. 
Intellect grows strong by every proof of its supe- 
riority ; virtue more lovely by repeated exempli- 
fication. We are bound to the good by the con- 
tinued proofs of excellence they exhibit while living ; 
but death gives increased value to the treasures 
they bequeathe. These may not be claimed as 
private right, — to humanity, to the world, they 
belong henceforth. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Editorial Introduction xi 



CHAPTER L 
The Meeting, — School Days, — Visit. — Parentage * 1 



CHAPTER H. 
Friendship, — Letters from Bennington, Vt. — Remark. 

— Studies, — Visit to Boston ..,...,. 16 



CHAPTER HI. 
Letters, — Remark, — Visit to Concord, N. H. ... 30 

CHAPTER IV. 
New- Year's Greeting. — Winter, — Books. — Letters 

from Keene, N, H. .,.*.,,..... . 40 

CHAPTER V. 

Views of Usefulness. — New Duties. — Germantown, Pa. 

— First Extracts from the Diary 50 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Diary. — Books read. — Visit Home. — Sickness of her 

Mother 80 



CHAPTER VII. 
IDeath of her Mother. — Letters written from Home. 

— Address to Pupils 93 

CHAPTER VIH. 

IRemoval to Philadelphia. — Letters to her Brother, 

Sister, Miss B 106 

CHAPTER IX. 

^Letters. — Lectures of Mr. Glidden. — Essay. — Close 

of 1845 118 

CHAPTER X. 

Letters. — Visit Home. — Impaired Health. — Removal 

to a warmer climate 123 

CHAPTER XL 

Letters, — First Impressions of Southern Life. — Ex- 
tract from the Journal 130 

CHAPTER XII. 
Letters. — May-Day Celebration. — Poetry. — Letters 

continued 136 



CONTENTS. IX 



CHAPTER XIII. 

Letters to Miss M. — Remark. — To Miss L. — To her 

Brother 153 



CHAPTER XIV. 

Letters. — Visit to Virginia. — Journey over the Al- 

leghanies. — illness 165 



CHAPTER XV. 

Visit Home. — Marriage. — Return to South Carolina. 

— Sickness. — Death 184 



MISCELLANIES. 

Moral Influence of Woman 207 

Rizpah 211 

To my Mother, on the Anniversary of her Death . 216 

Moment of Success 219 

'Tis the last of Earth, I am content: Dying Words 

of John Quincy Adams 224 

The Heroic Women of Rome 226 

The Baptism 234 

Reflections on Autumn 237 

To my Mother 240 

The Ocean Monarch 243 

The Floating Church 247 



X CONTENTS. 

Rest in the Lord 249 

William Ellery Changing 251 

Sacred Words: Oh, come to me 255 

La Perle 257 

The Memory of the Dead 259 

The Variety Store , 263 

True Religion 292 



EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION.. 



To present with fidelity the form and features* 
upon the living canvas, requires a long experience 
and most skilful hand. More difficult still, to make 
the written page give back a perfect image of mind 
and heart. 

True it is also, that the writer or compiler of" 
any form of biography must take a deep interest,, 
whether friendly or unfriendly, in the subject. Some 
have written to give expression to unkind or unjust 
feeling ; to rob the subject of public estimation ; or 
excite sentiments most severe and indignant. But 
such instances are rare compared with those, who 
are prompted to the task of mental picture-writing; 
from motives friendly even to undue partiality.. 
This warmth and personality of feeling lends often, 
to the written page a coloring too favorable for 
strict and truthful portraiture. The existence and 
influence of this partiality, so amiable and so unin^ 



Xll EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION. 

tentional of wrong, is understood by the general 
reader, and it becomes practically a verity, that the 
distortions of enmity, as the captivated opinions 
of a warm and devoted friendship, fail to produce 
any lengthy illusion upon the general mind. Not- 
withstanding this regulating power, of a sober and 
pervading judgment, faults still live permanently 
upon the biographic page. Yet they exist in close 
proximity with excellences of the rarest character. 
The history of a human heart comes with an appeal 
strong, tender, and deep. The manifestation of 
individual mind stirs more or less powerfully mind 
in general. The fondness we mark in the young 
for biography over every other species of the his- 
toric, speaks plainly of natural tendencies, of that 
law of our common nature, which causes us to 
delight more in the particular than in the extended, 
which inclines us to learn from individual example, 
rather than from general precept. 

The following biographical sketch has not been 
offered for public inspection without reflection upon 
its particular character, or irrespective of its moral 
bearing. Nor has it been offered without the knowl- 
edge that there is a multitude of books, yea, and of 
good books. But the uncommon abundance speaks 
of an uncommon demand. And should not the 
recipient of benefit be equally willing to contribute 
" the mite," if no more, in; return I 



EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION. Xlll 

The gathering up of scattered fragments, " so that 
nothing be lost," the search for the most desirable 
portions of an extensive correspondence to answer 
a proposed end, involve much labor and many trials 
of the heart ; trials those alone can appreciate, who 
feel that nothing remains but sad memories, filling 
the soul ; memories, that at the slightest suggestion 
sweep over the desolate places of the heart, with 
an overpowering might. Thus reading, thus tran- 
scribing, have these fragments of correspondence 
here given, been selected and consecutively pre- 
sented, to tell of individual opinion, judgment, taste, 
character, and personal history. This, too, has been 
done under the added pressure of manifold cares 
and duties. 

Speaking thus less in apology than in behalf of 
truth and justice, this volume of Life and Thought 
is offered to the kind attention of a generous public. 



BIOGRAPHICAL. 



BIOGRAPHICAL. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE MEETING — SCHOOL DAYS — VISIT — PARENTAGE — 
LETTERS. 

It was on one of those beautiful days in autumn, 
that we first met, — -a day to be remembered apart 
from all others. The chilling breath of the frost- 
wind yielded, for the time, to the bland zephyr, hold- 
ing its parting revel amid the gorgeous forests, and 
along the imbrowned vales, ere its departure for a 
more southern home. The skies wore an aspect of 
more than Italian softness, while the sunlight had 
the rich mellowness of the spring-time. Charming 
the season, most beautiful the day on which we 
met, and circumstances were propitious for the cul- 
tivation of a most intimate acquaintance, as to 
mind and character. We had both, for the time,, 
become inmates of one of the retired seminaries of 
our own New England. Some invisible attraction 
drew us often together, yet it was not perfect har- 
mony of opinion upon all subjects, or answering 
1 



2 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

sympathy, that formed the basis of the devoted 
friendship, that in time bound heart to heart too 
strongly for death even to sever. Its memory makes 
the holiest possession of the living, while its bright- 
ness lingered in gentle radiance, tender and abiding, 
even in the dying hour. But we would not here 
anticipate the closing scene. For the present it is 
ours to live again in the past, to review the life of 
one who blended in mind and character those rare 
qualities that wake in the universal heart warm de- 
votion, delicate regard, generous and profound ad- 
miration. 

The entrance of Miss Parker into the institution 
was not a similar occurrence to that which may 
happen frequently in a public seminary, — the ad- 
vent of an additional member, without any thing of 
particular importance beyond. She came already 
possessed of a highly cultivated intellect ; full of 
that enthusiastic love and appreciation of knowledge 
that betokens the scholar, and promises future emi- 
nence. Possessed of so much of the truly social, 
added to fine conversational powers, Miss Parker 
soon became the centre of admiration. The diffi- 
cult problem, each severe task of the intellect, was 
met most successfully ; but her natural tastes turned 
with more zeal, and deeper interest, to the finished 
and elegant in literature. A warm and brilliant 
imagination threw its couleur-de-rose over the page 
of her favorite authors, imparting a charm to her 
conversation, and rendering sprightly and attractive 
the productions of her own pen. The school exer- 
cises of this period in the way of the weekly com- 



THE VISIT — PARENTAGE. o 

position, would be interesting here ; but being pro- 
duced for the occasion, and serving the demand, they 
have not been preserved. But those who were her 
class mates, as well as the more discriminating visit- 
ors, who were present on public evenings, well re- 
member her beautifully drawn, historic pictures, so 
full of life and reality. The rounded periods, as 
they fell upon the ear, had all the charm of harmoni- 
ous music. 

The year glided away, leaving its memories rich 
and endless, which the distant clothes only in beauty 
and brightness. From its agreeable recollections, I 
may be allowed to select one, and introduce my 
readers, even as I had the pleasure to be introduced, 
to the home and immediate family of my friend. 
Many who will read this sketch, knew the subject 
of it from her earliest years: others have not this 
intimate acquaintance ; for those more especially are 
the incidents and impressions of this visit given. 

In this biographical sketch, it may be proper to 
state, that Miss Julia A. Parker, afterwards Mrs. 
Dyson, was born in Acworth, N. H., April 28, 1818, 
the second and youngest daughter of Dr. Benjamin 
C. Parker, an extensively known and highly respect- 
able physician, who removed* here from Westford, 
Massachusetts. To his now present abode let me 
conduct the reader, — leaving a more particular de- 
scription of the pretty little hamlet where it is situa- 
ted to the more graphic pen of my friend. Her first 
letters appearing here, were mostly written from her 
cherished and picturesque home ; and if the reader 
has never looked upon its beauty, or shared its hos- 



4 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

pitality, from its frequent mention a very intimate 
acquaintance may be obtained. 

The season for the introduction we might well 
regret, were we mere voyageurs of pleasure. For it 
is not in the gentle spring-time that we make our 
pilgrimage, or amid the luxuriance of summer ; but 
in the stern month of November. But amends for 
all this may be found in the social joys, that bereave 
this season of its otherwise chilling sternness. The 
festive day of a New England thanksgiving is at 
hand, — the time of all others most abounding in 
social delights. The gladness and hospitality of 
primitive days seem present. It is the time for the 
meeting of the absent, — for the strengthening of 
household ties, —for the twining into one wreath of 
beauty, the heart's holiest affections. 

It was as pleasant as any day can well be, at the 
beginning of winter, that we left the seminary, in 
company with several pupils of the institution, mak- 
ing up a very joyous party. A few miles, slowly 
passed over, brought us to the boundary that sepa- 
rates the mountain land, clothed as to its summit in 
fadeless green, from the sterner " Granite State." 
Not a few playful strictures had been exchanged by 
the way upon the peculiarities of each State, as to 
natural scenery, manners, customs, etc. But the 
boundary is passed, — our own Connecticut River we 
found silent in its icy fetters, while the snow-covered 
hills of New Hampshire were before us. The chilly 
atmosphere, the leafless trees, the ice-bound rivulets 
had been the only indications of winter, with which 
we had been greeted until now. As we receded 



THE JOURNEY WELCOME. 5 

from the Connecticut, only the hill-tops at first were 
white with a light fleecy snow, that required but one 
southern gale to dissipate ; but as we advanced, we 
found its investing mantle wrapping both hill and 
vale, hiding the rough features of the jutting granite 
crags, and wild ravines. The sun that shone so 
brightly at the commencement of our journey, had 
disappeared with a half wintry frown, and the dark- 
ness, added to the freezing atmosphere, made the 
sight of the village, as it appeared, doubly welcome. 
Glowing fires, with heart-felt warmth, each of our 
party knew to be in reserve. Our companions of 
the way lessened in number from the time of our 
entrance into the little rural village. Its last pretty 
dwelling reached, and we too were at the haven 
where w T e would be, — the early home and birth- 
place of my cherished friend. There the warm wel- 
come and kindest hospitality awaited our arrival. 
Allow me now to introduce to those of my readers, 
who are not previously acquainted, the different 
members of the family, as they were presented. Dr. 
Parker, the father, met us on our arrival, extending 
to his daughter a kind caress, and welcoming her 
friend with generous warmth. A courteous and hos- 
pitable man, he appeared, with that ease and quiet 
of manner, so characteristic of the gentleman. The 
mother and sister greeted us, very tenderly, as we 
were ushered into the cheerful sitting-room. I was 
forcibly struck with the likeness my friend bore to 
her mother, — the same dark eye and general cast of 
features. But a grave, almost deepened melancholy 
seemed to cast its shadow over one, while youth 
1* 



b BIOGRAPHICAL. 

and hope, in all their brightness, lighted up the 
countenance of the other. What resemblance, and 
yet what contrast, was the mental exclamation. As 
I sought, again and again, the beaming, happy face 
of my friend, I thought time and care, however po- 
tent they may be, can never so fix their impress, 
where now each feature seemed lighted with the 
radiance of youth and hope. 

I thought the sisters unlike, but a more intimate 
acquaintance has revealed many points of likeness, 
that were not at first so perceptible. The calmer 
thoughtfulness of the one, contrasted pleasingly with 
the ardent and impulsive manner of the other. Dr. 
Parker, jun., whom I had met before, was in appear- 
ance much like his younger sister. The mother's 
pale brow and dark eyes were his also, with much 
of the same thoughtful and seeming melancholy. 
But this appeared only at intervals, — the energy 
and far-reaching aspirations of ripening manhood, 
brought into the foreground of expression and char- 
acter that enthusiasm, so characteristic of the sister. 
No one could fail to mark the strong mental, as well 
as personal resemblance. The youngest member of 
the family was a lad of some twelve or fourteen 
years, very retiring in manner, strongly attached he 
appeared to his horse, his dog, and gun ; these were 
enough to constitute his world. A favored season 
'of life indeed, when so little is necessary to happi- 
ness. Such appeared this pleasant family circle at 
this time. In its agreeable society several days 
passed with a delight that neither time, nor the sad 
changes death has wrought, have power to obliter- 



MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY. 7 

ate. I would gladly linger amid the enjoyments of 
these happy days. Their occurrences have all the 
vividness that belongs to those of yesterday. Mem- 
ory has impressed upon them her own fadeless hues, 
and enshrined them for immortality. 

Time passed, and we found ourselves returned to 
the academic halls again. Life assumed much the 
same aspect that it had worn before. Spring came, 
— a rich verdure clothed our hills again. The 
minstrelsy of birds waked to joy the forest and the 
grove. Spring is a happy season everywhere; but 
the transition from drifting snows and frowning 
skies, to the charming freshness and beauty it brings, 
is very sudden, in our northern climate. Those, ac- 
customed to the warmer south, cannot appreciate 
this change, or share fully its happy influences. 
Many were the sweet effusions, this lovely spring 
called forth, from the happy, youthful band, whose 
silvery shouts were echoed by the hills rising around 
our rural seminary. When the Friday evenings 
came, the written exercises, for the time, seemed to 
dwell upon no topic so constantly or happily as the 
charms of spring. But notwithstanding all the in- 
cense poured out upon its balmy airs, all the invo- 
cations that it might abide for ever, like its prede- 
cessors, and those that have succeeded, it passed 
away, to give place to the riper luxuriance of sum- 
mer. Her roses had not all faded, when the first 
adieu that had been demanded since our first meet- 
ing, was spoken, — sadly it was spoken; although 
the interval of separation anticipated was expected 
to be brief; it extended to years. That interval 



8 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

was passed by my friend mostly within the quiet 
shades of her childhood's home, with an occasional 
absence for a few weeks or months. 

From this time her own correspondence will give 
a more satisfactory portraiture of mind and charac- 
ter than can be otherwise obtained. Of her letters, 
it may here be remarked, that as a whole they are 
penned with rare felicity of diction, sprightliness of 
thought, and warmth of feeling ; and were they pre- 
sented entire, they would form no unimportant addi- 
tion to this department of our common literature. 
But too well do we know they were not written for 
the public eye, and we feel scarcely at liberty to 
make such extracts as are necessary to this bio- 
graphical sketch. They shall, however, be delicately 
and carefully made ; restricted to such as shall illus- 
trate character, mode of thought and expression, 
presenting to view, in some degree, her high intellect- 
ual attainments, and that unobtrusive moral worth 
for which she was distinguished. The selections 
will not be found to have been made from general 
correspondence; but rather the more marked inti- 
macy of a devoted friendship, or family connection. 
These sources may afford less of the brilliant and 
fanciful; yet they are much better adapted to the 
object in view. In such correspondence the mind 
unfolds its own peculiar modes of thought; its 
hopes, its fears, its purposes, and aspirations are 
laid open to view. The heart's warm sympathies, 
fond devotion, and social susceptibilities are ex- 
pressed without reserve. The cold, critical, calcu- 
lating eye of the world is shut from view. The 



CHARACTER OF SELECTIONS. 9 

soul reposes in ease, in fullest confidence ; no con- 
cealment asked — none tolerated. It is from a 
source so healthful, and so reliable, that we give 
what may be termed an autobiography of our friend, 
embracing a period of fifteen years. The first ex- 
tract bearing the date of 1837, the last, 1852. 

The warmth of youthful feeling, the brilliancy of 
youthful hope, the perception and enjoyment of the 
beautiful, however presented, whether in nature or 
art, books or character, mark the first series. 

Years pass ; a deeper thought, a truer and holier 
feeling prevail. Life puts on the real, the earnest, 
and the manifold obligations of the responsible being 
are recognized and met in full and profound reliance 
upon the aid of heaven. Rarely do we meet with 
more enlightened Christian principles or truer devo- 
tion. 

For the individual of warm and tender impulses, 
strong and constant attachment, this simple and un- 
adorned biography, folds many a charm ; — for such 
are touched by the manifestations of generous sacri- 
fice, and place fidelity among the noblest virtues. 

To those who look upon life in its true light, as 
given for action, rather than ease, for usefulness, 
rather than enjoyment, will see duty and truth 
triumphant. To that individual, more than all 
others, who loves to contemplate the influence of 
Divine grace upon the human heart, — now weak, 
and seemingly easy of extinction ; yet while gazing, 
sees it grow stronger, and brighter, until its radiance 
lights up the whole being, purifying and sanctify- 
ing it for heaven and eternal happiness, such an one 



10 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

finds here an exemplification, and blesses God for 
the gift of His spirit, — the Omnipotence of its 
power ; for he sees the verification of his cherished 
and holy faith, — the changeless promise, " My grace 
is sufficient for thee." " As thy day, so shall thy 
strength be." 

To a large circle of attached and admiring friends 
this history, in her own words, will be vivid as real 
life. The friend, the sister, the daughter, the wife 
speaks again. The present becomes as the past, — 
the oblivion of the tomb is no more. The pressure 
of an inexpressible sadness is lifted from the soul, 
and the heart again thrills with its accustomed emo- 
tions of trustful happiness. 



Life here defies the hate 



Of his arch enemy, death ; yea seats himself 

Upon the sepulchre and 'mid the triumphs of his ghastly foe, 

Weaves his own wreath of happiness. 



"Acworth, March 9, 1837. 

" My Dear E. — I received your letter from the hand 
of our friend, Mr. F. — a few days since. With joy 
and gratitude I perused it, as a new pledge of my friend's 
affection. Yet let me ask, why did you not present your- 
self, instead of this consolatory bit of paper ? — Why, my 
dearest, you cannot know the disappointment my heart ex- 
perienced, when I was obliged to give up the hope of seeing 
you now, for months to come. I had anticipated so much 
pleasure, — wished so much to see you. But our wishes 
are traitors, and give us false intelligence. 

" You have not, it appears, received my snail-paced mes- 
senger of February date ; — how annoying to wait thus 



BOOKS READ — OPINIONS. 11 

long. I smiled as I sealed it, at the same time felt a 
presentiment that it would not reach you soon. But 
when it comes, remember its contents are sacred to you 
alone. I fear no violation of the confidence reposed, — to 
one I love, my whole soul stands revealed, — my heart 
is presented just as it is, even though it may blush and beg 
to retire to its hiding-place. How precious the kindred 
spirit where unlimited trust is reposed, — whose affection- 
ate sympathies are so pure, — whose love is changeless, 
eternal. 

" You mentioned The Memoirs of Josephine, published 
by the Harpers. It is on my list for perusal. In our judg- 
ment of that incomparable woman, we agree. But I shall 
never forgive the manner in which you presented her im- 
perial husband, on one of our remembered ' Friday even- 
ings.' He was my hero for that evening, — my choicest 
rhetoric had been used in his behalf, and the applause that 
followed was gratifying, for I felt it due to the subject, — 
the hero of a hundred battles should ever thus be honored. 
I had only left the reading desk, when I saw it occupied by 
my friend ; my opposing genius rather, if you will tolerate 
right names, and the sage of Mount Vernon was announced 
as a theme. I listened with unmingled pleasure, while 
Washington stood alone, claiming the honors of mankind. 
My pride and patriotism were equally enlisted. At length 
came the climax, that cutting and uncalled for antithesis, — 
so withering to the laurels of my hero, I cannot, I will not 
forgive. But a truce to past differences, — we will yet be 
friends. 

" My own reading for the past winter, has been occasion- 
ally, of the kind termed fictitious, which you dislike. Yet I 
must beg leave to differ from you, on the ground of its 
utility, as well as that of its moral tendency. I must deny 
the assertion of the poet, that 



12 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

' Eyes dazzled by fiction's gaudy rays, 
In modest truth no light or beauty sees/ 

" I have just finished Fay's i Norman Leslie.' It is a 
beautiful and instructive work of the kind. The hero is not 
a character entirely enveloped in the mantle of perfection, — 
thus robbed of all faults ; but excellent and not unworthy 
of admiration. It abounds in fine description of natural 
scenery, and presents withal, some striking traits of Ameri- 
can character. Some day when time hangs heavily, or 
passes too slowly, turn to the chaste and enchanting pages 
of ' Norman Leslie.' 

" I have spent the winter very, very pleasantly, — with 
my books has the time been mostly passed ; what very kind 
friends they are ; my reading has been both entertaining 
and instructive. Never in three months have I accom- 
plished so much. We received The Republic of Letters 
last autumn, a selection of the best standard literature and 
English classics ; it has received an attentive perusal. 

" Your allusion to the undefinable * West ' touched a 
chord that vibrates in such sweet imaginings ; I am deter- 
mined to visit that magic land, described as embracing so 
many paradisical charms. I wish my home was even now 
there. By the way, I must tell you my very dear friend, 
M. B . . . . , is preparing for a flight to Illinois. In two 
months from this time she takes her departure. The bare 
thought is insupportable to me, since I cannot accompany 
her. She writes to ask me if I am ready to fulfil the prom- 
ise made her to that effect. If not, she promises to go and 
plant the rose tree beneath my window, and learn the wood- 
bine its wreathings ; so that when I do come, I shall ex- 
claim, < How lovely a spot for Romeo and Juliet ! ' Roman- 
tic and beautiful girl, it fills my heart with anguish to think 
of parting with her, — how dreadful the word adieu ! But 
her faith is plighted to a fair-haired swain from the flower- 



THE WEST AN EARLY FRIEND. 13 

bespangled prairies.' If I appear at the bridal, it will be 
i less in joy than sadness.' But whatever I feel, I must ex- 
press no more. Write me very often, until we meet again, 
my kind friend. 

" Thine ever, Julia." 

We could not omit the closing allusion to one of 
the earliest friendships formed by Miss Parker. The 
"romantic girl" alluded to is now the more sober 
matron. Yet it is beautiful to stir the heart's sweet 
memories. Their friendship was a charmed episode 
in the life of each. If they met at the bridal, it was 
their last meeting on earth. Their bright dreams of 
social bliss and tenderness were not to be realized 
in this world. Bat in that glad realm, where all 
that is true, tender, and hallowed in affection shall 
live in perfected loveliness, may they at length meet, 
to part no more forever. 

"Acworth, June, 1837. 

" My dear Friend, — I confess the feeling in which 1 
seize my l youthful pen ' to-day, is not the most gracious- 
The warm blood rushes to my cheek when I remember that 
three of my epistolary missives have brought no return.. 
Your pen must be suffering from paralysis, or else you deem 
me among the things that have been. 

" But strange as all this seems, I cannot doubt my gener- 
ous, and, as I believe, my most devoted friend. Truly 
mine is a woman's trust, i perfect and fearing no change but 
death.' Your letters, although often too long delayed, are 
the heralds of pure affection, speaking as from the heart. I 
believe them ever to speak the language of truth and sin- 
cerity. And in every thing, am I not disposed to make full 

2 



14 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

return ? To doubt this one moment would be to know me 
not. The ocean yields to the powerful yet silently exerted 
force that creates its tides ; the violet lends so willingly its 
perfume to the caressing breeze; even so does my ever 
trusting and responsive heart answer to thine. There is no 
feeling on earth that brings such bliss to the soul — that is 
so affluent in rich, exquisite enjoyment, as the consciousness 
that we are beloved, that we are capable in any degree of 
enhancing the happiness of others. I sometimes think that 
even you, who know me so well, think me of a nature cold 
and unsympathizing. I do not turn aside to correct all 
false impressions, but to you, at least, I would be known as 
I am. Believe me, then, when I assure you I would rather 
possess the devotion of a few faithful hearts, than feel my 
brow pressed with the gem-lit tiara of England's queen, or 
be the wearer of the Sultana's imperial gift that blazes upon 
her snowy neck. With my devoted band, I would lead up 
a triumph more glorious than those of the olden time. 
Those swelling the gorgeous train of fame's renowned con- 
querors were held in place by a stern necessity — mine 
should be willing captives alone. 

" But while upon the tender subject, I must inform you 
that the exquisite morceau on 6 Love ' that has appeared in 
the New York and southern papers is certainly not mine. 
The signature deceived you. I think it very beautiful ; and 
if I knew the fair authoress, I, too, would gladly render 
homage at such a shrine. I seldom write for the press. If 
I possess something of the ambitious in my nature, I have 
no confidence. When any thing in print from my own pen 
meets my eye, I literally feel my cheek crimson, and an 
allusion, commendatory or otherwise, is painfully embarrass- 
ing. I wish it were not so. 

" I would like to say much upon literary and other sub- 
jects. Not a few, I confess, are at present calling for atten- 



AUTHORSHIP REMARK. 15 

tion. ' The glorious Fourth ' is at hand. It is to be cele- 
brated with uncommon splendor in Claremont. The beauty 
and chivalry of the ' Granite State ' are to be concentrated 
there. I have a beautiful dress, prepared for the occasion, 
trimmed so tastefully that even you would be obliged to ad- 
mire it. I know you are not pleased with excessive gayety, 
neither am I fascinated, as you sometimes deem me, with 
festive scenes. I will concede more to your wishes than to 
those of any other individual living. But my sentiment 
must ever be, ' Independence now, and independence for 
ever ! ' Comprenez-vous ? It implies only that self-respect 
you ever counsel. 

" With devotion, ever thine, 

"Julia." 

The preceding is characterized, as will at once be 
perceived, by that warmth and devotion of feeling 
that served in its reflex influence to attach Miss 
Parker's friends to her so strongly. And that inde- 
pendence, while it was firm, it was yet so gentle and 
respectful, that it must be regarded a pleasing, as 
well as a noble, characteristic. Joyous and inno- 
cently gay, her appearance in society was welcomed 
with gladness and admiration. Ever bland and 
gracious in manner, pleased to contribute to the en- 
joyment of others, there was with her ever present, 
a true self-respect that would indulge only in the 
truthful and sincere, that closed alike the lip and 
ear to flattery. 



CHAPTER II. 

FRIENDSHIP — OPINION OF BOOKS — LETTERS FROM BENNING- 
TON, VT. — HUMOROUS ACCOUNT OF COMMON VEHICLES — 
REMARK — RETURN HOME — STUDIES — • YISIT TO BOSTON 
"-VARIOUS OBJECTS OF INTEREST. 

" Bennington, Vt., June 21, 1838. 

"Mx OWN Friend, — Is a blush, in your estimation, 
the token of conscious guilt, or innocence ? I know it has 
been called the index of purity and ingenuousness, — so it 
may be sometimes. But if its origin be doubtful, or not 
always the same, whence comes it even now ? for I feel it 
mantling my cheek. This, too, when the heart is calling 
from its most secret recess, where its choicest treasures are 
bestowed, the image of a most dear and cherished friend. 
And while memory also is boasting her treasures of bright 
reminiscences gathered from the happy past. I repeat, 
whence does the mantling blush now spring? the answer 
must be given: — it is from non-compliance with a most 
reasonable request of my best friend. I confess my fault 
with deep penitence. Will you accord me a pardon, all of 
' grace ? ' I plead nothing in extenuation. 

" My dearest friend, I need not tell you how warmly my 
thanks and gratitude are yours, for the kind assurances 
your letter contained. I love to think that in heart so un- 
selfish and kind, one little spot is reserved for an affection- 
ate and devoted friend. Surely my heart would not forfeit 



FRIENDSHIP EOOKS. 17 

its title there for all the world esteems and values. Thrice 
happy are they who find such a retreat from the noise and 
insensibility of the world. The world, with me, is another 
name only for the most chilling self-interest. Yet I know 
not altogether why I am the misanthrope 1 find myself. I 
have not personally felt either its malice or coldness. My 
bark has, thus far, been wafted gently and calmly along ; 
neither assailed by storms nor shaken by tempests. I have 
met with kindness and sympathy wherever I have been. 
Yet have I seen merit undervalued, virtue despised, and 
goodness treated with scorn and contempt. I have seen the 
noblest actions attributed to the basest motives. The no- 
blest spirits crushed and broken by its bitter envy and mal- 
ice, — their brightest hopes darkened, — yea, and forever 
destroyed. It is such injustice, such crimes as these, which 
induce a feeling of misanthropy, and make me loathe a 
world that has inflicted on me no individual suffering. I, 
too, have thought it very inconstant. This idea, also, is de- 
rived from observation rather than experience. Yet I have 
not judged by my own heart in this particular ; for surely 
its trust once fixed, it would : ask no change for ever. But 
pardon these sad musings, and these severe judgments, as 
you will no doubt regard them. 

" To change the distasteful topic, let me answer your 
question relating to Bulwer's ' Pilgrims of The Rhine.' I 
do not much like the manner in which the book is written. 
The fairies tried my patience exceedingly. Was it not 
strange that the author should have intrusted the destinies 
of an angel like Gertrude to the keeping of beings gov- 
erned by every thing mortal? Had he given it to the rapt 
seraph to keep and protect, he would have been honored by 
such a jewel in possession. What a lovely picture of para- 
dise she is, — how much too pure for earth, — how like a 
zephyr wafted gently to heaven. And Trevellyn, is he not 
2* 



18 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

a noble spirit, — his love, how perfectly pure, and gener- 
ous ! It formed a part of himself, — the nobler part of his 
being. How his character was modified by its influence ! 
Pride, coldness, sternness, fled at his approach, — nature 
herself yielded to its powerful sway. The legendary lore 
interwoven is full of interest, but deeply tinged with a dark 
superstition. . . . 

" Do not suppose that my reading is confined at all to 
this species of literature. I read a tale occasionally, and 
only as a relaxation from some severer task. When I make 
use of this resort, I seek for one that has been pronounced 
good; frequently I find myself disappointed, acting upon 
another's judgment: again, as in this case, I am much 
pleased. There is something in true genius, however di- 
rected, that excites deep admiration, and its contemplation 
ever makes me happy. 

" Ever so truly, yours, Julia." 

How soon the sad lesson of the world's heartless- 
ness and instability forces itself upon the observing! 
How soon we are made to feel this, through sym- 
pathy with others, if not in personal experience ! As 
we love human happiness, as we are deeply touched 
with human suffering, how devoutly are we led to 
wish that it were not so ! But joy and sorrow are 
irreversibly linked with our earthly lot. The bright 
picture, that youth and inexperience color with hope 
and anticipation, must be darkened. But wisdom 
has here, the first opportunity to utter her forcible 
admonition, and hope, whose promises seemed lim- 
ited to this world, points onward to a brighter. 
Thus has Heaven ordained, that through the insuffi- 
ciency of u things temporal," we at length are ena- 



LETTER- WRITING. 1 9 

bled to rise to the comprehension of "the things 
eternal." 

"Bennington, Vt., July 12, 1838. 

"My dear E., — A day of quiet bids me repair to my 
chosen retreat to fulfil an important part of friendship's mild 
and pleasing requisitions. Yes, I bless the gentle goddess, 
albeit we are separated by the unkind fates, who love to 
thwart her power, that she has left us the i blissful alter- 
native ' of silent intercourse. The pen, with what enchant- 
ing power does she endow it ! Inspired by her, with what 
6 mighty magic ' does it throw open the portals of the heart 
— call out its best and purest affections, its holiest sympa- 
thies, and with sweet compulsion cause it to acknowledge 
the sovereignty of its mistress, and pay its vows unreserv- 
edly at her altar. Yes, I love to write my friends, and I 
love to acknowledge that I love. 

" I have thought the feelings called forth, while penning a 
letter to a friend, were more pure, more sacred in their char- 
acter, than the warm emotions that the presence of that 
friend inspired. The reason may be, there is more sacrifice, 
and this is the true test of love. Who can resist the tones, 
the accents of tender affection ? "What heart can fail to open 
the wellspring of strong and hallowed affection in the pres- 
ence of a loved object? But in the stillness and retirement 
of one's own retreat ; with no look of affection, to touch the 
thrilling chords of feeling; with no radiant smile, armed 
with ' all the artillery of love ? coming to take captive the 
heart, — alone with memory and with thought, then it is, 
that feeling and sentiment reign in their purity. 

" I was delighted with your description of scenery, as well 
as your graphic portraiture of manners and customs given. 
You must be pleased, yet through all, I smile to discover 
your extreme partiality for New England. Ah ! is it dis- 



20 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

tance that lends enchantment ? if so, I wish I could view it 
from the same distant point. I should then be under the 
influence of a double spell, that of your presence, and a rare 
feeling of admiration for my own New England. Yet this 
same estimable old lady first smiled upon me, as I looked 
forth upon the world, has given me my education, with an 
abundance of pumpkin pies, and many similar demonstrations 
of her care and kindness, for which I am exceedingly grate- 
ful. I have been such a pleased, passive, happy child, that 
I do really doubt, if it has ever entered into her mind, that 
I am not quite sincere in all my compelled admiration for 
some notable traits of character, for which she is proverbial. 
I am sure she has never ' guessed 9 that I could be so blind to 
my own happiness as to wish to leave her lovely bowers, 
her verdant mountains, and crystal streams, her profuse and 
delicate wild-flowers. Nor should I, were it not for that 
restless propensity within, that loves to have old things pass 
away, and all things become new. 

" You remember that we used to have some animated dia- 
logues upon the relative merits of our respective States, that 
seemed so near, and yet are so divided. I still retain my 
opinion, that New Hampshire is far superior to Vermont. 
With the exception of your blessed self, and some few de- 
lectable items added, the Green Mountain State has nothing 
of interest for me. A whispered voice seems to reply, these 
are sufficient to excite both love and respect. Bui away 
with the suggestion, I am determined to edify you once. 

" I have been spending, as you know, some time in the 

renowned little village of B , one of the prettiest, I am 

told, in the mountain State. From the little I have trav- 
elled, I know not how it has obtained the superlative, — but 
let that pass. I wish you to be informed, as to some 
matters relating to this section, and among the most novel, 
is their mode of travelling. If it is in your own State, and 



BENNINGTON — CARRIAGES. 21 

that not a very large one, I doubt whether you know ex- 
actly how ' all sorts and conditions ' of people live. Well, 
here every man of note, has a machine called in New 
Hampshire a cart ; but here a ' wagon.' The dimensions 
are about nine feet in length, and four in width, containing 
in the first half, seats enough for the whole family. On the 
front is seated the man and woman ; directly in the rear, the 
little responsibilities, given to them in holy charge. The 
last half is devoted to various purposes of convenience, 
usually some articles of household furniture, such as beds, 
chairs, tables, etc., vastly commodious. How I have learned 
to admire the ingenuity, the wonderful inventive powers 
of this people, the subserviency of every thing, even pleas- 
ure carriages to convenience. Perhaps, however, the praise 
of originality does not belong here ; the model might have 
been obtained from a certain prince in Europe, who had 
constructed for himself a very elegant carriage, containing 
drawing-room and kitchen, well furnished, so that really 
it was quite like home. Now these Yermont vehicles are 
but a shabby pattern, drawn from the princely establish- 
ment, but the resemblance is not wholly lost. I admire 
these carriages inexpressibly ; — they call to mind in all 
their freshness, the days of the Crusades, and I often imag- 
ine as I see them pass, I hear the children, as they approach 
the village, exclaiming in infantile curiosity, ' Father, is 
that Jerusalem ? ' 

" There are other items bordering on the unique, which 
shall receive attention in due time. 

" Ever thine, JuliI." 



Time has been called the consoler, — time is also 
the teacher, — the revealer. In the waywardness and 
inexperience of early life, how conflicting the feelings 



22 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

and opinions that we cherish, compared with those 
of wiser years. The stricture here given upon New 
England, half playful, half earnest, will present a strik- 
ing contrast with the general sentiment, upon the 
same topic as offered subsequently. Nor could it 
well be otherwise, with a feeling heart. That spot 
which gives us birth, must ever be dear. Those insti- 
tutions, which shape our first modes of thought, must 
be venerated. Those conventionalities, which our 
inexperience may regard, as involving all propriety, 
must still be sacred, even when a more liberal knowl- 
edge tells us of over-estimation. If there is one 
thing more than another, in the many subsequent 
letters and essays of our friend, which inspires sin- 
cere gratification, it is the expression of that just and 
warm admiration, so richly due from every son and 
daughter of New England. Not that sectional cant, 
so offensive to the right judging and generous mind; 
but that beautiful filial tribute, that meets a hearty 
response in every magnanimous breast. A tribute 
so grateful in feeling, — so charming and beautiful 
in expression. 

" Acworth, N. H., September 1, 1838. 

" My dear E., — Returned to my quiet home, life 
passes much as usual. Most of my time is occupied in 
study. I am translating Italian, the sweetest language in the 
world. Its home is under sunny skies, where nature lives 
in grace and beauty. Shall I ever visit that land, rendered 
immortal by arms, by art, and song? In imagination I pay 
my visits daily, and daily weave fresh lays for the tomb of 
my deplored Tasso. But there is a fascination about the 



ITALIAN — FAMILIAR SCENES. 23 

haunts where passes our real life. If by any spell I could 
call you into my presence, this, of all the world, should be 
the place of happy reunion. When the lip had bestowed 
its warm and passionate caress, — when words of rapturous 
welcome had been spoken, and I was fully assured of my 
recovered treasure, — then would I ask you to look forth 
with me upon the gorgeous panorama, that is spread out be- 
fore the enchanted view. I would bid thee note the glorious 
hills that stand as the sentinels of our town, and beautiful 
groves that require but the presence of Pan and the white- 
robed Naidas, to render it classic ground. I would give ' my 
kingdom,' to have you here to-night with me, that you might 
see the gorgeous drapery of rainbow hues, with which old 
autumn decks himself, as if for enjoyment and pastime. 
But is it not bad taste for such an old man, and so sedate 
withal, to dress himself in such coxcomb finery ? But we 
will let him have his way, since he makes himself so be- 
coming notwithstanding his age. . . . When shall I indeed 
see you ? I have consulted the oracle, but the rapt 
priestess gives no reply. Rem ember what is said of ab- 
sence ! Truly thine, Julia." 

" Acworth, N. H., December 1, 1838. 
" Mr own dear Friend, — t With what a leaden and 
retarding weight does expectation load the wheels of time.' 
Even so has it seemed to me almost a lifetime, ere I was 
greeted by your last blessed epistle. But since it came to 
my heart, laden with beautiful thoughts, and the delicate 
sweets of pure affection, — like the bee, which extracts the 
golden treasure from the lovely flower, yet robs it not of per- 
fume. Yea, since it unlocked the fountains of memory, and 
called up from its depths a thousand bright remembrances, 
and awoke in my heart a response to every sentiment 
of tenderness and friendship it expressed. I forget its 



24 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

long delay. I blessed you again and again, for such beau- 
tiful tributes of mind and heart. 

yfc $fc $fc 3t» 3fr 7(f <fc 

" You ask me for an account of my recent visit to the 
6 Queen city of the East.' It shall be most graciously ac- 
corded. But I fear that it will be wanting in interest ; since 
I made no pencillings by the way, to which I may refer, to 
catch the enthusiasm which I felt at the time of beholding 
a consecrated spot, or a beautiful scene. A vivid impres- 
sion is soon lost, or beheld in the dim light ' of things that 
were.' 

" I particularly enjoyed my visit to Charlestown. The 
location is both advantageous and delightful. The most 
imposing object of interest, is the Bunker Hill Monument. 
It marks a spot, hallowed by the blood of heroes and mar- 
tyrs, to the cause of liberty. As I stood upon the holy 
ground, I thought, with a melancholy feeling, how little of 
that elevated and nobler patriotism, that fired the soul with 
ardor and shone like a beacon light on the dark days of 
freedom's struggle, now pervades and actuates those who 
possess the glorious inheritance bequeathed at such a price. 
True, the ' Star-Spangled Banner ' now proudly waves over 
the land of the free ; yet sad is the fact, that its bright folds 
are becoming soiled by the breath of the rash innovator, 
and the foul spirit of party feud. But a truce to mor- 
alizing. We ascended the monument, a chaste and endur- 
ing superstructure of granite, upon the summit of the ' holy 
hill.' It is now raised to only half its contemplated height. 
The workmanship is admirable, and promises to rival the 
pyramids in duration. You ascend the monument, by an 
interior flight of spiral steps, winding around a large central 
column of granite. From its present summit even, the 
view is really grand. Charlestown lies below you, along 
which beautifully winds the Charles River, whose ripples as 



BOSTON AND VICINITY. 25 

they sport with the sunbeams, present to the eye an appear- 
ance of liquid silver. There was to me, a beauty and 
magnificence in this stream, lent, no doubt in part, by asso- 
ciations and the highly advantageous point, from which it 
was viewed. Beyond the river, the assisted eye takes in a 
splendid view of Boston, and still further onward, the har- 
bor, the bay, and in the far distance, the glorious ocean. In 
countless numbers, appeared the swift-winged messengers 
of the deep. Here a steamboat ploughing the blue waves r 
leaving behind it a long, bright track of radiance ; there a 
white sail took in the gentle breeze, and courtesied grace- 
fully over the shining waters, like a fairy cloud in the sum- 
mer sky. The whole scene was one of enchantment. How 
much you would have enjoyed it, and I too far more ex- 
quisitely, had you been at my side. I would like to give 
you a description of the Navy Yard, and all the wonders 
we saw there, and in the immediate vicinity,, such as the 
dry dock, tremendous war ships, cannon-balls, mortars, and 
bombs, rope- walks, officers, sailors, sea-captains, with dimen- 
sions too large for Falstaff's girdle, and a thousand, etc. 
of which were I to enter into a description, I should kill you, 
with very weariness. As we proceed to Boston, I will, a(r 
least, allow myself to imagine you in the company, where 
you indeed belong. We* will drive down Bromfield street*, 
and our home while there, shall be at the fine hotel, the B*. 
House. We shall be at liberty to consult our pleasure- 
here, in every thing. We need not be troubled by keeping; 
hours like a clock. We will rise and retire at our own. 
hours, — we will ride, walk, or play chess, or backgammon, 
— notice the fine ladies and gentlemen, — amuse ourselves- 
with modern exquisites, or turn our attention to more impor^ 
tant matters, trying every phase of enjoyment, * from grave 
to gay, from lively to serene.' 

" Let our first visit be made to the Capitol, a noble granite 
3 



26 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

building, the seat of the legislative majesty and wisdom of 
the Bay State. How beautiful the green court spreads out 
before it. Let us enter the vestibule, — notice overhead, as 
we enter, the American eagle, nicely cast in bronze, — ad- 
vance to the opposite side, and view the finely executed 
statue of the immortal Washington. It is Chantrey's master- , 
piece in art. There it stands on a proud pedestal, — in his 
good right hand is the roll of the Declaration, — how ex- 
quisitely the folds of the Roman Toga fall around the noble 
figure. What perfection to be represented in marble, — 
what dignity, benevolence, mildness, and goodness combined, 
beam from that countenance and blend their rays in har- 
mony ! This is our own glorious Washington, our country's 
pride and benefactor. Shall we not bend the knee ? no — 
it is perfection — yet in man. 

" Let us enter the library, instead of ascending at once, 
to take a nearer and more imposing view of Boston than is 
obtained from the Monument. This library is certainly 
worthy a place in the Massachusetts State House. What a 
profusion of books, and how well chosen. Here is a splen- 
did copy of Audubon. How I wish I possessed this treas- 
ure of natural history. An attempt to introduce it into my 
little room would place me in as laughable predicament as 
was the Vicar of Wakefield, when his pictures came home. 
How much we find to carry us back to the olden time, as 
well as to excite our interest in the present ! If any State in 
our growing republic, can congratulate herself alike as to 
the past, and present,, that State is Massachusetts. Her 
Warren, her Hancock, and her Adams, are they not all 
here ? And with what pride may she not now point to her 
Webster, her Sprague, her Everett, and Story. But we 
linger here too long, — - our company, no doubt, have sur- 
veyed the whole building, — how imperceptibly has the 
time passed, — we must return here another day. Our 



THE COMMON CAMBRIDGE. 27 

walk homeward will lead us through the ' Boston Common/ 
Please observe particularly the little cool lake in the centre, — 
how intent the boys seem sending out their tiny skiffs. How 
much of happiness is manifested among that group at play 
upon the green. Do you think it would be delightful to 
be a child again ? These at least are happy children now. 
This seems the chosen retreat of fashion and pleasure. 
What beautiful trees, — what grand, majestic trees. There 
is the Old Elm, encircled with iron bands for preservation. 
Here is the Jingo, brought from a warm climate. This is 
a delightful spot, — we must visit it often. 

" This evening, I propose that we go to the Tremont ; do 
not object, a favorite of mine is to be played. To-morrow 
we will spend a few hours at the N. E. Museum ; after- 
wards we will walk in Washington street, — go a shop- 
ping, — for who ever heard of ladies visiting a city and for- 
getting this all important business ? 

" This morning is beautifully bright, — we will spend this 
day in Cambridge and the vicinity. It is a very pleasant 
ride from Boston ; do you not think so ? And what a well- 
chosen locality the colleges occupy. The Oxford of young 
America, and Cambridge united. The very air is filled 
with the breath of literature. It would seem that these 
groves, this thought-inventing shade, would be well suited 
for the lessons of Plato. It is a happy and vastly poetical 
idea, to seek the groves, as fit places for instruction. We 
must live in tender and respectful familiarity with Nature, if 
we desire to be truly learned. We must not forget Mt. 
Auburn, — the few days we have spent here together have 
excluded the thoughts of the last hours of life too entirely 
from the mind. Let us visit the city of the dead, and never 
more forget that we are mortal. Mt. Auburn is a quiet, 
delightful spot, in itself possessing a charm that seems to 
rob death of its terrors. Who would not forget the revolt- 



28 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

ing associations of the grave, and calmly resign the spirit, 
for such a resting-place ? Certainly, if life had been but a 
thorny maze, the idea would be a pleasing one. The 
leaves quivering in the breeze, are like the whisperings of 
departed loved ones ; while the setting sun leaves his latest 
smile upon this sacred home of the dead. Quiet, lovely 
spot, — you will live in my dreams. My blessing I leave 
with thee, and when the summons 'of dust to dust' shall 
come, may a spot of kindred loveliness be my place of re- 
pose, and thine, my friend, may thine be near ! 

" But here again we linger too long. The city is distant 
five miles, and our company impatient. How delightfully 
could we pass weeks, even months here; but the fairy's 
wand will this night appear, — she would promise me your 
presence no longer. I feel that she is a compassionate little 
being to aid my wishes for a few days even. Have we not 
been happy ? Hoping again soon to meet and not so soon 
to part, receive for the time 

" My most affectionate adieu, 

"Julia." 



The above closes the extracts we make from the 
letters of 1838. The last is more nearly the entire 
communication than any before given. Sprightly, 
imaginative, thoughtful, — we could give no more 
faithful portraiture than these extracts afford. Look- 
ing joyously and hopefully upon life, cultivating 
with care a sensitiveness to the beautiful and true, 
— happy, and imparting happiness, — cherished with 
warmth and tenderness, and cherishing in turn an 
equal devotion, we should love to linger upon this 
bright page of her history ; for life, as it now passed 



CLOSING EXTRACTS. 29 

with our friend, forms one of those sweet pictures of 
quiet, charming enjoyment, upon which we dwell 
with exquisite satisfaction, when we find so little to 
regret in the retrospection. 



CHAPTER III. 

LETTER OF SYMPATHY — REMARK — RECEPTION — BRIDGE- 
WATER TREATISES — VISIT TO CONCORD, N. H. — DESCRIP- 
TION — STATE HOUSE — STATE PRISON — SOCIETY — EN- 
VIRONS. 

"Acworth, N. H., Jan. 1839. 

" My dearest Friend, — I have seated myself to an- 
swer your last kind letter. Yet how shall my feeble pen 
portray the emotions excited by the perusal of the sad 
tidings it contained? The deep tide of sympathetic sorrow 
that rushes over the heart, tells me how fondly I love you, 
— how electric the charm that binds us ! Is it ever so, that 
stern, relentless death is bent upon the wreck of thy fondest 
hopes, — that he has indeed snatched away another rainbow 
promise, dissolving it in air? 

•Jff 3|fr yfc vfc 7|e 3|f 7F 

" In reflecting upon similar events, how sadly have I been 
disposed to dwell upon the inscrutable ways of Providence, 
and the thought has come with a feeling of murmur, that 
those so admirably fitted, both by nature and cultivation, to 
appreciate and practise all that is pure and holy in virtue, 
noble in principle, and elevated in purpose, — those who 
possess all the treasures of mind and heart, that are rarely 
found in harmonious combination ; and which link them to 
the affections of friends, by indissoluble ties, — those whose 
minds are so delicately organized, — so finely strung, — so 



PROVIDENCE HAPPINESS. 31 

sensitively alive to all that is pure and beautiful. I say I 
have mourned that such as these must close their eyes upon 
this glorious creation, and be torn from those who have 
learned to live upon their smiles, and to whom they were 
the light of life. While those who are friendless and for- 
saken, — strangers to all that gives value to life, — aliens to 
happiness, and seemingly detached links in the great chain 
of human sympathies, retain their hold upon existence with 
a strange tenacity, and live, and live, until age has demol- 
ished the temple of life and laid it in ruins. Yet these som- 
bre clouds that often obscure the perfection of God's moral 
government, are dispelled at once by a ray from immortal- 
ity. Nor can we mourn the exit of a friend immoderately, 
w r hen we follow the freed spirit to its new abode in the 
realms of seraphic glory. Behold it with new energies and 
expanded faculties, exploring the mysteries of creative 
power, drinking new draughts of happiness from the pure 
river of life, and touching its golden lute to soft and harmoni- 
ous numbers, as it joins the celestial host, in anthems to heav- 
en's King. And how animating the idea, that in those 
bright realms no disease or pain can ever enter, or touch 
that eternal life hid with Christ in God ; or the fell de- 
stroyer ever extinguish that Promethean light that will burn 
with new effulgence as endless ages roll. 

******* 
" I have much to say, but my pen refuses to speak on 
any but mournful subjects to-day. How often we have 
smiled together, but have rarely wept. Have we not yet to 
learn, or do we not already know how sorrow binds the 
heart of friend to friend ? Know me from henceforth so 
tenderly and devotedly thine, in joy and sorrow. 
" Ever thine, in truest sympathy, 

" Julia." 



32 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

We have made this short extract from the first let- 
ter of 1839. It may seem to speak less of the writer 
than would warrant its introduction here ; but for its 
delicate and touching sympathy, a place has been 
given. It reveals a heart alive to the holiest sen- 
timents of friendship, — an acknowledgment of the 
wisdom and goodness of Providence, even when its 
appointments are all mysterious to our imperfect 
vision. The consolatory reflections offered, drawn 
from the greater exaltation, and happiness, in the 
spirit land, come to the heart most impressively. 
Her own words, uttered as from the realm of bright- 
ness, bidding those who mourn her early death, be 
comforted. That life so spent in acts of kindness 
and usefulness, — that life bearing testimony to no- 
ble talents, rendered nobler by exercise and im- 
provement, — that life that bowed in meekness and 
trust, to the dispensations of heaven, — that life, 
that closed in manifestation of such strong faith, 
and confidence in God, speaks in certainty of the 
blissful spirit, — of sweet repose, in the bosom of 
the Redeemer. 

"Acworth, N. H., March, 1839. 
" My dear Friend. — It is some time since I have 
Ibeen at the confessional. My letters have been upon any 
topics, rather than speaking of my occupation. My silence 
may result from a want of perfect satisfaction on this point. 
I am never idle, neither am I employed as I ought to be. 
I read and study, until this kind of occupation becomes a 
very weariness. Our retired village offers little to interest. 
My true element I feel would be found in a more active and 
useful mode of life. 



GEOLOGY — ITS FACTS. 33 

" I have been occupied some time past upon the Bridge- 
water Treatises. Buckland's Geology I have just finished. 
I agree with you in pronouncing it incomparable. I have 
dwelt upon its wonder-unfolding pages with a profound and 
most intense interest. I think Geology the most splendid 
and beautiful of the sciences. What new interest it lends 
to this world of ours ! It spreads out this earth as a scroll 
to our admiring eyes, it lays open its hidden recesses, and 
lifts the impenetrable veil of ages. It initiates us into those 
mysteries that proud science has never deigned to unfold, 
even to her favorite disciples, until the dawn of our brighter 
day. Geology exhibits the plans of the Deity in most im- 
pressive light. What a history is that of our globe from 
the hour it came from the forming hand of the Creator, 
through all that long series of ages that have rolled away ! 

"What adaptation of means to ends is everywhere re- 
corded, throughout this whole eventful history. How do 
the evidences of contrivance and design, manifested through 
all, impress us with the care and goodness of the Infinite. 
Tending to one grand result, what revolutions has He suf- 
fered our globe to undergo. What destructive agencies 
have successively swept over it, what torrents of devastation, 
accompanied with a vast wreck of animal and vegetable 
life. As often has it been remoulded into a more habitable 
and perfect state, replenished anew, with an increasing com- 
plexity of animal and vegetable life, until the abode was 
rendered complete, — and man, the last and noblest effort of 
creative power, was called into existence. The being of 
most transcendent excellence, the link connecting earth and 
heaven. The being in whom nature had concentrated the 
happiest results of skill, ingenuity, and experience, pro- 
claiming him the lord of this fair globe. But what did I 
say ? I had reasoned a 'priori when I said man was the 
completion, the perfection of the great work of creation. 



34 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

True, Nature looked with admiration upon his manly form, 
his godlike features, his herculean strength, his powerful 
mind, and pronounced him very good. Yet as she scanned 
him with a critic's eye, the penetrating glance discerned in 
him a sternness of thought, a rigidity of features, an inflex- 
ible resolve, a high-born pride ; she says, he shall be my 
type, but I will form a being, upon whom I will set the seal 
of perfection. I will remedy the defects I did not at first 
perceive, and she shall be the crowning work. I will give 
her a symmetry of form, with a more graceful, a delicate 
outline, and her features shall show the finest and most elab- 
orate touches of my pencil. For her, shall be purloined 
heaven's bright sapphire, and yonder floweret, that bathes 
its fair brow in the stream of paradise, shall blush yet more 
deeply, when it sees itself outvied in her cheek. My purest 
alabaster shall be moulded for her brow. On her mind I 
will bestow still greater wealth. She shall have the refine- 
ment, the delicacy, the modesty, the humanity, yea, and the 
soul of love, that I had forgotten to bestow upon her lord. 
She shall be a paragon of virtue, — a being to be beloved. 
Her path shall be a radiant one, and I will make her as the 
bright star, whose mild, soft light can still the tumult of the 
soul, and rejoice the heart. Nature then said, I am con- 
tent. While she thus spoke, a bright angel descended from 
heaven with a bright pearl in his hand, — saying one thing 
more, — and he placed it beneath the silken lashes of her 
eye ; — it was the pearl of sympathy. 

" But what a strange pen is mine ! It lights upon a favor- 
ite subject, and never knows the desire to pause, until forci- 
bly compelled. And now that the world is complete, social 
order and beauty established upon an imperishable basis, 
I turn to some more immediately personal considerations. 
******* 

u From the length of my letters you will infer an abun- 



THE CROWNING WORK. 35 

dance of time at command, added to extreme loquaciousness. 
To yourself, at least, I love to express all that I think, — all 
th#t I feel. While I act and feel thus, I am compelled to 
believe in the doctrine of contrarieties, — the attraction of 
opposites. To you, my friend of few words, but 'well 
spoken,' I confess, — who guards so carefully from view the 
interior workings of the soul, — to such an one, even to your- 
self, stands ever revealed, thought, feeling, motive. I am 
somewhat displeased at times, with your reserve, with my- 
self for too much candor. But a natural tendency of dispo- 
sition we may equally follow ; and I presume the sentiment 
is correct, ' That all nature's difference makes all nature's 
peace.' In demonstration of the harmony of extremes, I 
confess myself 

" Most admiringly yours, Julia." 

Then follow some letters more strikingly illustra- 
tive of modes of thinking and characteristic feeling, 
than the preceding. But the prohibition, " not to 
expose one word" guarded them fully at the time 
they were received, and fidelity to the departed, ren- 
ders the prohibition doubly forcible. We pass them 
back, with many others, to the sealed casket of fond 
and silent memory. 

"Acworth, N. H., August, 1839. 

" My dear E., — Is it not time for you again to listen to 
the sound of my voice, as it is wafted to you by my little 
messenger bird ? And will not its tones be pleasant to your 
ear, although they are neither like the music of birds, the 
singing of the rill, the whisperings of the forest boughs, 
the sound of iEolian strings, or moreover, like the harmony 
of the spheres, or any thing else sweet and enchanting? 



36 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

Yet will not the familiar voice be welcome if it comes in 
i the deep, low tone/ if its breathings be the echoes of that 
glad sound, which comes up from the fountains of affectipn, 
as its waters fall into memory's urn, brightening the gems 
that lay therein ? If it murmurs the feelings of a devoted 
heart, or tells of firm and constant friendship, turn not 
aside, but listen to it, even should it greet you at the twi- 
light's gentle hour, when the soul is rapt in contemplation; 
or if it come when morning opens to you her rosy eye, or 
the field yields to you its offering of wild flowers, — hear it 
speak to you of one, who loves all these glorious things, and 
to whom they would be thrice lovely could they be con- 
templated in sweet companionship of my friend. Could we 
meet but for one hour, I feel it would give a new impulse to 
the dull motions of my spirit, and paint upon the clouds that 
surround it, the rainbow of peace. It would reanimate the 
sense of the beautiful, that slumbers within the soul. But 
when shall I see you ? When shall I have the opportunity 
of knowing the happy impulse ? Come soon and stay always, 
and we will be happy, ' nor mind the storms of life.' We 
will adore Nature together, and like true priestesses, we will 
interpret her deep and hidden mysteries. We will read the 
language of the stars, and the flowers, and make them the 
emblems of all that is pure and beautiful in human char- 
acter. For us the noblest truths shall beam from the pages 
of philosophy, and then the poet shall sing in his richest and 
most enrapturing strains. Yes, Milton shall string his 
heaven-tuned lyre, while paradise and angels are his theme. 
Thomson shall make his Seasons roll, unfolding their 
beauties in charming and truthful verse. Cowper shall 
make us feel how pleasurable is his * Task.' Shakspeare 
shall pierce the human heart with 'Ithuriel's spear' and 
lay it open to view. Byron shall lead us on a delightful 
pilgrimage. Mrs. Hemans shall bring us ' flowers, wild 



CONCORD — STATE-HOUSE AND PRISON. 37 

flowers,' rare flowers, for us to weave, while Burns shall 
delight us with the charms of his Jean. What more can* 
you ask or desire ? Have I not promised to regale you with 
a rich intellectual feast ? I have engaged all these children 
of song to tune their harps for you, and will you disappoint 
them ? Can you do it ? 

% % Jfr ■Hfr -sfc $£ •sfc 

"Since I saw you, I have spent some time in Concord.. 
My first visit to the capital of my native State. I was quite 
pleased with the appearance of the town and the inhabi- 
tants, as far as my acquaintance extended. Concord is,, 
comparatively, an old town, its streets beautifully adorned 
by majestic elms, which with their broad sweeping branches, 
give an antique and most agreeable aspect to the place.. 
The State House is a massive stone building, surrounded, 
by a beautiful green, and well inclosed. There is an ab- 
sence of ornament about the building and its surroundings, 
and true democracy finds here a home no doubt. Visited, 
the State Prison also, — examined all the details of the 
workshop, etc. ; was particularly gratified to see the cultivated- 
patches of ground outside the cells. Here was a little corn,, 
and there a few potatoes, and there a cucumber vine, — 
then some pretty little flower beds. Poor creatures ! The- 
moments of time devoted to them make their only recrea- 
tion. I did truly pity them, although I knew them wicked- 
I fancied I could read in their hearts, signs of sorrow and 
regret for their past offences, and good resolutions for the 
future. As I thought of their friends, perhaps a weeping 
mother, an affectionate sister, a broken-hearted wife, and 
other tender ties, I could scarcely refrain from tears. And. 
now that I recall this visit to the mind, the thought of these- 
poor miserables fills me with pain. What a noble mission is 
that, going about 6 doing good,' visiting the prison, teaching 
the outcast the law of love and obedience, alleviating human. 

4 



38 BIOGRAPHICAL 

suffering, pointing the wanderer to the path of rectitude, 
from which he has so far strayed. Beautiful, heaven-in- 
spired philanthropy. I love its faintest image, and yet 
my life has manifested so little. I am not what I should be 
— what, by the blessing of God, I will henceforth endeavor 
to be. 

" I cannot close without telling you of a sweet little re- 
treat a short distance from C, called Paradise, a favorite 
place of resort for the beau monde of the town, — the chosen 
spot for rural tea-parties, pic-nics, etc. etc. I paid some 
visits there, with agreeable company too, but it did not, how- 
ever, answer to Milton's description of Eden ; and if it had, 
the lovely Eve would have been wanting to make it Paradise. 
The vicinity of Concord abounds in beautiful pine groves, 
through w T hich wind smooth roads in every direction. 
Never was riding such a luxury as here. I thought it al- 
most Paradise. But I would not weary you, my friend, 
with too much of the agreeable. Ever in kind consideration 
" I am so truly, thine, Julia." 

This closes the extracts from the letters of another 
year, — a year which Miss P. passed in the quietude 
of her early home, with the exception of an occa- 
sional visit, or a short journey. There was much 
time for thought and study. With a mind at once 
energetic and active, with a heart so susceptible 
of warm and noble impulses, we can well under- 
stand that this quiet and seemingly aimless mode of 
life could not be altogether satisfactory. The sen- 
timents expressed in the preceding letter are just. 
But this life was not idle r or useless, — in retire- 
ment the character was acquiring strength for future 



PARADISE EVE — REMARK. 39 

action. Life and its momentous responsibilities 
were being calmly and truthfully contemplated. It 
was the season of preparation, and there is abundant 
evidence that it was well employed. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE NEW-YEAR'S GREETING — WINTER — BOOKS — PHRE- 
NOLOGY — REMEMBRANCE OF FRIENDS — FAVORITE GROVE 
— LETTERS FROM KEENE, N. H. — DESCRIPTIVE AND PER- 
SONAL — REMARK. „ 

" Acworth, January, 1840. 

"My own dear Friend, — A happy, thrice happy 
new year to you. This greeting has flown on tardy wings, 
I confess. Yet it is not less ardent and sincere, on that ac- 
count. To see my friends happy, or rather to be able, in 
any measure, to contribute to their happiness, is the deepest 
wish of my heart. I would be a fairy, or some spiritual 
being, ever hovering around them unseen, to shield those so 
cherished from the evils of our pilgrimage, — to distil upon 
them, from some nectared cup, all mild and gentle influences, 
and by the touch of my wand, reveal to them beauty and 
delight from every object. But alas ! I cannot be a fairy. 
Yet I can be a friend, and the wishes of a fond and faithful 
heart are not the least radiant of earth's jewels. 

" But I had hoped, my friend, to express all these kind 
wishes and sentiments for yourself individually, otherwise 
than by the dull interpreter that now speaks. I had hoped 
to speak to you, as in the past, rather than write. How 
eloquently do I feel that I could speak, inspired by your 
presence. But you continually refuse the opportunity and 
withhold the inspiration. Nothing could have been wanting 



WINTER ITS ADVANTAGES. 41 

to my happiness, had you consented to spend this winter with 
me. I should have forgotten the cold without, — ceased to 
look upon the heaps of snow, ' Olympus high,' for all within 
w T ould have been so bright. There is no sunshine like that 
of the heart, no warmth so genial as that of affection. I 
will hope still, I will not be unhappy. I am not so even 
now. True, I here witnessed the despoiling of nature's 
fairest scenes, of summer's proudest honors, with a heavy 
heart and sorrowing look. But now that stern winter is 
here, having fairly established his throne in our midst, not- 
withstanding he has done us wrongs not to be forgotten, in 
laying sacrilegious hands upon the bright garlands of our 
forests, and with such rude breath blighting the verdure 
of our bonny hills, I find his features less repulsive than I 
anticipated, and myself disposed to look upon them some- 
what kindly. The thought of a winter like our own, ere it 
comes, is chilling to the soul. Yet the law by which the 
seasons roll all must admire, for its wisdom and the utility 
of its operation, not only upon the natural, but still more 
on the mental world. The mind is naturally disposed to 
dissipate itself over many a subject of forbidden thought, 
and exhausts its strength in excursive flights ; and in those 
seasons when Nature puts on her beautiful garments, 
beauty and melody, attracting the eye and the ear on every 
hand, the thoughts are fain to fly from their own pleasure 
fountains, to drink enjoyment from the alluring scenes 
around us. But at this season, when Nature has laid aside 
her youthful attractions, — her wild gracefulness and beauty, 
— we turn from her more stern features to the cheerful 
fireside, the entertaining page, for that enjoyment we natu- 
rally desire. The mind is turned in upon itself, every thing 
disposes us to calm reflection and patient thought. Thus 
we learn our own strength and resources ; so learning to 
discipline and furnish our own minds, that enjoyment may 
4* 



42 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

not fail us when the world has no longer its accustomed 
eharms. 

$fc ifc $fc tK 1 3|£ yfc y/t 

" I spend much of the time in reading and study. I have 
been laughing, weeping, and making merry over the pages 
of Waverley. I am now reading Chalmers' Treatise ; also 
the life of Schiller, the great champion of German literature, 
a character full of interest, marked by such love of moral 
excellence, such devotion and success in intellectual pursuits. 
Since reading his life, and a criticism of his work, together 
with some other of the German authors, I feel a very strong 
desire of acquiring a perfect knowledge of that language 
which has become the vehicle of such transcendent elevation 
and originality of thought. . . . 

"I think of spending the remaining part of the winter in 
Keene, with two prominent objects in view, — to exchange 
the isolation of our little village for something more ani- 
mated, and to pursue my literary schemes more successfully. 
" Thine ever, Julia." 

"Acworth, May, 1840. 

"My dear E., — I have been waiting with much impa- 
tience for the arrival of the promised phrenological chart. 
It has been so long since we met, that I feel desirous to 
know whether all these multiplied kind feelings and warm 
affections are bestowed upon one who really exists, really 
partakes of humanity in its tendency, now to follow the right, 
and again to swerve to the wrong. To be assured, indeed, 
that you breathe the vital air, would be most gratifying. 
To test the fact by sight would add the most exquisite grati- 
fication ; but if this be not practicable, at this present, it 
would be vastly interesting to see the mental being turned 
wrong side out and fastened upon paper, where I could 
speculate at leisure upon its capabilities, peculiarities, and 
eccentricities, etc. ... 



PHRENOLOGY — ITS PRETENSIONS. 43 

" What privileged beings these same phrenologists are ! 
Almost as liberally endowed as those curious magicians 
who boast such sway over men's minds and eyelids. What 
can better confer on man the appellation, ' godlike/ than 
this power of reading with the fingers the disposition, feel- 
ings, and capabilities of man ; yea, and woman too ; for I 
ween it takes no little knowledge, no slight amount of sa- 
gacity to read a woman right. I must say I am rather 
incredulous respecting this thing, phrenology. Yet I con- 
fess it has some mighty arguments to support its preten- 
sions ; but my vanity and self respect will not allow me to 
believe its assumptions. If phrenology be a verity, fallen 
are all my air castles. My hopes are like the 'baseless 
fabric of a vision." For I have a small head, which these 
modern philosophers frown upon at once, and although the 
posterior portion of the brain may not be largely developed, 
the residence of the intellectual faculties is in a narrow and 
extremely cabin-like portion of the dwelling. Really I can- 
not imagine how they can make themselves comfortable in 
an abode so little capacious. I can only account for it 
on this wise ; that not having been largely supplied with the 
food by which spirits are nourished, they have never at- 
tained the stature of ' perfect men,' and are exceedingly 
puny and childlike. 

******* 

u Present me in kind remembrance to our friends, Mr. 

W and lady. Yonder lovely grove, as I look in that 

direction, reminds me of them. I took them there, when 
on their visit to me, that they might rehearse to you its 
increasing charms. There is not one whom my heart ac- 
knowledges as a friend, I mean of those who visited me, with 
whom I have not spent moments, often hours of delightful 
companionship in that sacred place. Should this ever cease 
to be my home, that will be to me the loveliest place of all 



44 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

the earth, — it will ever wear its present hue in my memory. 
Never can I love another spot as well, although it might be 
in itself a paradise. This grove was the favorite haunt of 
imy childhood, and seldom does a day pass, without finding 
me seated on my mossy stone, beneath its leafy canopy. It 
.has been sacred to calm and pure hopes, to meditation, to 
study, to friendship, and love. Smile not at this last con- 
fession. I use not the term in its common acceptation. 
The same thing, usually called love, I know no more of 
»than the merest child ; it has never reached my heart, much 
Jess entered it. The love of excellence is that of which I 
rspeak, of perfection, the love of ideal beings, that haunt my 
imagination. But this is a long digression from the subject 
of our friends, with whom this paragraph commenced. The 
important is still unsaid. 

* # * \ ; ;■'_* * * * 

"I am reading Bancroft's History at present. We may 
(Congratulate ourselves in at length producing a historian 
worthy to write our unequalled history. So successfully 
commenced, it must proceed with increasing interest. For- 
rtunate is the country that produces such a historian, but 
doubly fortunate the historian who has such a history to 
vwrite. The bare facts of American history far transcend in 
pathos and interest the reality, the fable, the poetry, that 
lend such charm to the historic pages of Greece and Rome. 

" Have you read that inimitable work of Dickens, Nicholas 
INickleby? Never did the pen of any writer present human- 
ity with so much of meanness, selfishness, and vice, on the 
one hand, and such ethereal purity and excellence on the 
other. Does truth preside over these delineations ? Can 
human character sink to such frightful degradation ? Par- 
donnez-moi, but I can scarcely believe that such a character 
as Squeers can be based upon the real : if so, it would be 
delightful to see him, or any of his stamp, tied to a whirl- 
wind that had started in pursuit of a comet. 



THE GROVE — KEENE. 45 

" If you have not read the book, please do so, by my 
especial request. 

" Ever thine, Julia." 

Three times already have the despoiling frosts of 
autumn fallen upon the beautiful grove, here and 
elsewhere referred to as a lovely spot. As often has 
spring thrown her rich green drapery over it, since 
that admiring eye was closed to the beauty of earth 
for ever. Truly it is a charming spot in itself, but 
the genius of the place has departed. No visits 
now are paid, even after long intervals. Since thus 
bereaved, I have looked upon it once, — it was in 
the luxuriance of summer, but its drapery of foliage 
seemed only the vestments of mourning, — its shad- 
ows only funereal, — its echoes so full of sadness. 

"Keene, N. EL, August, 1840. 

" My ever dear Friend, — I write from the prettiest 
of the New England villages of late. I have informed you 
before, that it is for the prosecution of my literary schemes 
especially, that I came to reside here for the time. To re- 
view some particular branches of study, and to practise the 
colloquial use of the French and Italian languages. Very 
great facilities for these purposes are offered here. A very 
good representative of the revered Miss Grant presides over 
one department of the institution. I have heard her pro- 
nounced the finest scholar in New England ; but this must 
be understood as extravagant praise. She is certainly a 
very superior lady. A model teacher she may safely be 
pronounced. 

******* 

" Keene is the most delightful town in New Hampshire, 



46 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

— bordering upon the Connecticut, — the centre of much 
wealth and refinement. The society very attractive. Yet 
I am not desirous, even, of participating in its advantages, 
my time being so much occupied. I meet with much atten- 
tion and kindness. But this very kindness often makes me 
sad, by awakening the recollections of the loved absent. I 
have no fondness for this gay and noisy world. It has, 
within its wide extent, no home for my spirit. All that is 
essential to my happiness is the consciousness of the fulfil- 
ment of duty, — a place where I can commune with my 
own heart, and be still, - — the society and friendship of the 
little band, that like perennial plants are firmly rooted in 
the best soil of my heart. Give me these three blessings, 
yea, and a fourth, communion with the glorious dead, in the 
works they have left behind, and earth can have no bolts 
strong enough to shut out happiness. How dear to me is a 
familiar face, — how sweet the tones of a familiar voice ! I 
do not love strangers enough to make the least effort for a 
new acquaintance. This I feel to be wrong. The kindly 
and social feelings of our nature should be diffusive, — 
ready to ^x themselves upon worthy objects, at least, so 
moralists say. Yet I confess I am one of those, who would 
rather have a friend all the world to me, and myself prove 
all the world to that friend, than to possess the capability of 
loving thousands and receiving the love of millions. Selfish 
and misanthropic that I am, how little calculated to gain the 
love of the many, or the friendship of the few ! But 
Heaven and my conscience shall be my motto, and you will 
be my friend, — my sister, enough, — enough. 

•Jf 3|£ $fc $/t yfc ■3(f "3(5" 

" I do not approve the opinions offered, in your last, on 
the subject styled fortune. I cannot subscribe to the senti- 
ment, that we are led about by those vengeful beings, called 
6 the fates,' as the criminal is led to the gallows. I believe 



SOCIETY — - BOOK WAITING. 47 

we may mark out for ourselves a certain course ; pursue it 
in defiance of what is called fate, attaining the end in view. 
Although launched upon the ocean of time, we are not at 
the mercy of its waves, but may provide ourselves with 
compass, cable, and sails, steering our course to the port we 
desire. Yea, an unconquerable resolution will be to our 
vessel like the mighty power of steam, bidding us defy the 
storm and the calm, the winds and the waves. 

" Excuse aught of differing opinion. What is wrong, 
pardon. If we do not think alike, we do not differ. Re- 
member me, with all faults of head and heart, in love. 

" Yours ever, Julia." 

"Keene, N. H., October, 1840. 

"My own kind Friend, — Think me not forgetful if 

I have delayed an answer to your favor of the 2d inst. My 

delay has been simply for the absence of that information 

you asked, and which I was most desirous to give in answer. 

" It is a most beautiful day, — one more so, I believe the 
autumnal sun never looked upon. Yet I am strangely dis- 
turbed and impatient. This is Wednesday. Monday was 
fixed upon for my return home. I have been waiting, all in 
readiness, ever since. My brother was to come for me. I 
cannot account for the delay. Do you know of any thing 
like waiting? The penalties of Tantalus, of Ixion, of the 
Danaides, bear no comparison to it, for drying up the very 
life-drops of patience. 

" I feel myself a mysterious trifle ! I wonder if there is 
in the wide world another such anomaly. A simple coun- 
terpart to the strange combination of materials that make 
up the individual being called ' Julia.' Should I find such 
an one, I am sure I should feel more of affinity than fond- 



48 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

ness for the strange being. Had I any c sway over the 
powers unseen/ — could I receive the deepest wish of my 
heart, — it would be to possess a calm, contented spirit. My 
prayer would be for utter indifference to any thing that 
might lead to one anxious feeling, to one single hope for 
higher enjoyment than the present affords. The guardian 
spirit, whose mantle of love is over me, grant, oh grant this 
boon ! . . . 

" How wilfully strange are these eyes of mine ; they prove 
themselves utterly devoid of taste, by turning from this nice 
sheet, thus far adorned with thoughts and ideas of rare beau- 
ty, to that old elm before my window ! Its leaves are falling 
in showers before the autumnal blast, and the pride of its 
summer hours is fast being stamped with the eternal motto of 
the wise man's seal — Vanity ! Long, long will it be ere 
the genius of leaves and flowers shall again come to hang 
upon it his garland of beauty. Ere that time, what pages 
in the book of our existence shall be turned over ? Will 
this year be as its predecessors have been, or will it be an 
eventful period, fraught with thrilling incidents to give 
variety to our pilgrimage ? Ah ! who can tell ? He alone 
knows whose eye beholds the falling leaf and the fading 
flower. With Him, let us leave ourselves, praying that 
these sad tokens of the presence of these melancholy days 
may not be the emblems of our fate. . . . 

" I am now in my own cherished home once more ; — the 
shadows that rested so darkly upon my spirit when I com- 
menced this letter have departed. May they not soon re- 
turn ! There is no pleasure more sweet than to return 
home after an absence, however short, to the roof that 
sheltered our infancy and childhood, to the embrace of 
those who know not in their own feelings that word so 
fearful, change. Then let me in all truthfulness subscribe 
myself 

" Thine so truly, without change, Julia." 



SCENERY — ITS INFLUENCES. 49 

Another year thus passes in review. The first 
and last extracts being given, speak eloquently of 
the influence of nature, in her varying features, upon 
the heart. No one was happier than our friend, in 
contemplating its quiet and cheerful aspects, and the 
lessons taught by its changes found in her an atten- 
tive and rapt listener. To her there seemed a peculiar 
charm in the bold Alpine scenery of her native State r 
and this is perfectly natural. That which meets our 
childhood's gaze must impress us deeply and perma- 
nently. Happy are those whose childhood and early 
life pass in free and unrestrained communion with 
nature in her boldest and more impressive manifes- 
tations. There is a symmetry and strength of mind 
and body, that is born of bold mountain scenery. 
Nature in her sternness and grandeur, affects us more 
deeply and healthfully, than in her softer and milder 
features. The Tuscan peasant, and the Swiss 
mountaineer, may be equally her children, yet how 
widely different. 

How strong and predominant the charm, the at- 
tachment felt by the inhabitant of a mountain region 
for his birth-place, his own, his native land. It is a 
characteristic so striking, that it has never escaped 
observation. To what is it due ? To a high and 
holy communion with nature, in her loftier moods. 
5 



CHAPTER V. 

GREETING FOR 1841 — VIEWS OF USEFULNESS — NEW DU- 
TIES ASSUMED — GERMANTOWN, PA. — FIRST EXTRACTS 
FROM THE DIARY — LAUREL HILL — SABBATH — WESSA- 
HICKON — BOOKS READ — PLACES VISITED — SCHOOL — IN- 
TEREST IN PUPILS — RELIGIOUS DUTIES — MEMBERSHIP 
WITH THE CHURCH — CHRISTMAS — CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

" My own kind Friend, — A happy,, thrice happy 
new year to you. May your guardian angel hover over 
you this year, with the wings laden with heaven's choicest 
gifts, and his robe of innocence and mantle of wisdom fall 
upon you, while each shall bring you brighter and holier 
revealings from the secret chambers of destiny. May these 
and a thousand more wishes equally kind be realized by my 
friend of friends. * 

" I am here, in my own home, — your tardy messenger 
having reached me safely. You never need be alarmed for 
the fate of an epistle directed to Acworth, for the thread of 
my existence is fastened upon the foundations of our ' ever- 
lasting hills.' The services of Samson or Hercules would 
be powerless to draw it from them ; and as for the scissors 
of the Fates, if they were ten times sharpened, they would 
find themselves foiled in an attempt to sever it. I am 
bound to the spot by an invisible charm that the rust of 
time will only overcome. 

******* 

" I was deeply interested in the history of your celebra- 



IVANHOE TOURNAMENT. 51 

tion, both from the paper and the particulars contained in 
your letter, wherein you dwelt so eloquently upon the love 
of country, and admiration for its noble and fearless de- 
fenders. . . . 

" Since writing you I have read for the first time that 
most delectable production of Scott's pen — Ivanhoe. It 
has not a few touches of the superlatively beautiful. What 
a fair creature is the peerless Rebecca, and how faithfully 
drawn the miserly Jew, her father. How deeply the heart 
is touched by some passages in his history. How fearfully 
these eighteen centuries has the displeasure of High Heaven 
been manifested against this offending race. What a 
splendid thing a tournament was, — would that they still 
might be seen. Yet it was a foolish, although a very bril- 
liant pastime. Minstrel and ' gallant knight ' and his fair 
lady of those chivalrous days, is not their type almost lost ? 

" Of life as it passes with me this winter, the detail would 
be too monotonous to interest you. A portion of my time 
is spent in looking after household matters, the remainder in 
sewing and reading, with an occasional visit abroad, but 
oftener with company at home. You will think this all 
very dull, — so indeed do I, jet the very quiet, or very ex- 
citing, suits me best. It is difficult for me to occupy medium 
ground in any thing, so with characteristic candor and 
warmth, Believe me, 

" So truly thine, Julia." 

This one extract from the correspondence of 1841 
is all we give for the year; for the remaining part 
our selections are from her Journal. Of this year 
we would give something more particular and mi- 
nute than the preceding, — a year that introduces 
Miss Parker in a new capacity, — that in which she 



52 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

is most widely known. After a lengthy and thor- 
ough preparation, we see her take a distinguished 
position among those who voluntarily surrender 
themselves to the pursuit and spread of knowledge. 
It had been for years a favorite design of Miss Par- 
ker to engage in the business of teaching, and to 
that end much of study, reading, and reflection had 
been directed. Not much encouraged, it may be, by 
her immediate family and friends; yet resolved upon 
a life of usefulness, this occupation, in her judgment, 
opened an appropriate and congenial sphere for ex- 
ertion. 

With acquirements of the first order, a noble zeal 
in behalf of education, firm in control, and apt in 
communication, we might beforehand have predicted 
much success. A vocation so important, — supported 
in her case by every prominent requisite, — entered 
upon from the most generous and worthy motives, 
becomes an object of interesting contemplation to 
every liberal mind. To such enlightened agency 
does society owe its healthiest tone, and individual 
character takes its happiest direction under such 
kindly influence. 

Our common country owes a debt of profound 
gratitude to the daughters of New England, for the 
generous and noble self-sacrifice they have mani- 
fested in behalf of education. Forgetting or heroi- 
cally triumphing over the allurements of ease, the 
charms of a life made busy by trifles alone, and re- 
linquishing the paltry aim for fashionable distinction, 
we see a noble band going forth upon their labors of 
love, following such predecessors as a Hale, Willard, 



NEW DUTIES — FEELINGS. • 53 

Sigourney, and Lyon. Scattering the seeds of hap- 
piness as pure as pervading, — a happiness spring- 
ing from intellectual culture and moral excellence, — 
a noble band, — and noble successors. In the first 
rank, as before said, we may justly place Miss Par- 
ker. Those whose felicity it was to receive her in- 
struction, who felt with each lesson their love and 
appreciation for knowledge increase, who imbibed 
something of the enthusiasm that characterized zeal 
for improvement and excellence, — these can best 
appreciate the justice of the position thus accorded, 
and testify to the fidelity with which it was sus- 
tained. In writing upon the subject of her antici- 
pated vocation, Miss Parker remarks, with much 
truth, " Many young ladies, I am sure, would prefer 
the ease and .comfort of my happy fireside, to the 
arduous and responsible duties of a teacher. But 
such is not my nature. Although I am happily sit- 
uated, my every desire met, even anticipated, — 
surrounded by dear friends, cherished with tender- 
ness, yet do I feel my life is passing in too much of 
uselessness,. I am determined no longer to be a ci- 
pher in the world, Jiving for my own pleasure, and 
with aid from above, I would devote my life, from 
this moment, to usefulness, to the good of others, 
to my own individual advancement and excellence. 
My friend, I can never lay me down on the bed of 
death, and taking a retrospect of life, feel that I have 
lived in vain. O God ! in mercy spare me such re- 
flection in that hour." 

With sentiments so just, with motives so gener- 
ous, with a due appreciation of the difficulties and 



54 * BIOGRAPHICAL. 

responsibility of a teacher's life, did our friend devote 
herself to the vocation. In the quiet and delightful 
country suburb of Philadelphia, as it then was, 
opened the scene of experimental trial in the newly 
assumed profession. All was well chosen, — the 
place, the people, the school. Germantown, the lo- 
cality, is coeval in age with Philadelphia, of which 
oity it now forms a part. Its name indicates the 
original settlers, over whom fell the investing mantle 
of Penn. Its population bear an impress so desir- 
able, and yet so rare, of great simplicity, in the 
midst of the corrupting influences of a large city, of 
a true intellectual refinement, without a shadow of 
the arrogance of superiority. As I recall the mas- 
sive and superlatively neat dwellings, the beautiful 
gardens found ever in the rear, the flowers and fruits, 
the shaded lanes and pretty churches, all shrined 
amid embowering trees, it seems a kind of terres- 
trial paradise, where the every-day weariness of life 
was less felt, than in any retreat I have known. Of 
the pupils it may in truth be said, they were gener- 
ally most gentle and charming girls. Their gentle 
smiles, their bright eyes so full of pensive thought 
seem to rest on me while I WTite, making the past 
again the agreeable present, and the far perspective 
of the future revealing them as the brightest orna- 
ments of a most refined and intellectual society. 
Such the scenes, and such the persons, where Miss 
Parker found herself, after leaving her quiet home, 
in prosecution of her new vocation. 

From her diary we make some extracts. They 
speak now of her interest in the business in which 



THE DIARY — ITS MEMORIALS. 55 

she had engaged, — her opinion of books read, — 
her impression of persons and things, with those ex- 
ercises of mind and heart, in relation to the highest 
duties of a moral, of a responsible being. The me- 
morials given for the next four or five years may- 
be fewer from her own pen, yet we know, if written 
out, there would be seen some beautiful pictures of 
quiet enjoyment. The impression that the current 
of life was turned in the direction of greater useful- 
ness, contributed to a higher satisfaction than can 
ever be known, when we feel ourselves the central 
point, whither tends every wish, and every exertion. 
There would be, too, delineations of sorrow, such as 
the heart had never known before; all tending to 
promote that purity and elevation of character, — 
that trust in God, — that acquiescence to His will, 
that makes the true life here, and prepares the soul 
for that better existence that lies beyond the troubled 
present. 

Opening the diary for memorials of these days, 
we feel its contents more sacred than the letters from 
which the extracts up to this time have been made. 
They were designed, at least, for the perusal of the 
one to whom they were addressed ; but no eye ex- 
cept hers rested upon the pages of the diary until 
death had consigned its keeping to another. Al- 
though associated with the lamented writer at this 
period daily and hourly, this was nevertheless a 
sealed book ; and now while we peruse it for the 
first time, each page truly seems the folding back 
for view the heart's true record, the disclosure of the 
mind's treasured wealth of thought, and depth of 



56 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

feeling. The first extract we make bears the date 
of June 14, 1841. 

" This day commenced my duties as a teacher. This sta- 
tion I feel to be a most responsible one. I desire to place 
my trust in God, relying on him for aid and success." 

Thus opened the diary upon the newly assumed 
duties, — brief and full of meaning. "Trust in 
God," — how much this resolution embraces. Who 
has greater need of heavenly aid, than the individ- 
ual whose vocation bears so intimately upon the 
happiness and excellence of the young, — that voca- 
tion that addresses itself to the heart when most 
impressible, that gives direction to thought when 
its course may be most definitely marked and most 
successfully controlled. 

"June 16. — Have visited to-day the Laurel Hill Cemetery. 
It is indeed a lovely spot, — its location on the banks of the 
Schuylkill is beautiful in the extreme. But ah ! I would 
not think of sleeping the sleep of death in a place so 
thronged with the careless, the gay, and the pleasure seek- 
ing. Far different were the feelings that came here from 
those I experienced at Mount Auburn. There the ground 
seemed holy, sacred to the ashes of those who were no 
more. There was a calm and quiet beauty about that home 
of the departed, that seemed to rest like a sweet and blessed 
influence upon the soul. It was a place where all unholy 
passions might be hushed to peace, — a place in which to 
shake off from the care-worn spirit, the dust of this every- 
day world, — to look forward to its release from all earthly 
bonds with delightful anticipation, and gird itself with those 
virtuous resolutions and desires that are like armor in the 



LAUREL HILL MOUNT AUBURN. 57 

rough ways of life. There was a quietness and seclusion, 
too, about the tombs and groves, that made me feel as if I 
could not only with calmness, but with pleasure, have this 
spot for my last resting-place. The deep solemnity of 
Mount Auburn was entirely wanting at Laurel Hill. I 
walked through its grounds as I should have done else- 
where, unaffected by the thoughts and associations which 
the presence of a burial-ground naturally inspires." 

We remember this visit It was a beautiful day 
in summer that it was made. A great number of 
persons in carriages and on foot were to be met in 
and about the grounds. There was on that occa- 
sion a seemnig want of the quiet, the serious, and 
the thoughtful, so natural, so appropriate, when in 
the immediate presence of the dead. But subse- 
quent visits have left a different impression. 

The great cemetery of Boston is more diversified 
in natural features, and more spacious ; but the 
decorations of the grounds, and appearance of visitors 
are very similar, as now presented to the observing 
eye in these places consecrated to the dead. 

" June 18. — Spent a few hours to-day in the Germantown 
Academy, inspecting its conveniences. It is a time-honored 
place of learning, built previous to the Revolution, with 
something of a library, and very considerable botanical, and 
mineralogical collections. 

"In the garret were the fragments of a rude electrical 
machine, said to have been used by Franklin in his first 
experiments upon that subtile fluid. 

" All that relates to that great philosopher and his dis- 
coveries is ever full of interest." 



58 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

" June 20. — Went to church, — heard a good sermon. I 
feel entirely dissatisfied with myself this day. I have not 
worshipped God with sincerity and truth. That homage that 
he alone will accept I have not rendered. My thoughts 
and affections have been elsewhere than on heavenly things. 
' Create within me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit 
within me/ Oh, I am all weakness, lend me thine aid." 

" June 26. — A day of much leisure. Returned calls. 
Read in ' Old Mortality ; ' also some of Mrs. Jameson's 
sketches of celebrated women, Maria Letizia, the mother of 
Napoleon ; Zingha, queen of Angola ; and Metamba, of 
Donna Catalonia De Erauso. This latter was a most as- 
tonishing character. I will not say woman, since she not 
only wore the garb of the other sex, but was destitute of 
every feminine quality ; she possessed the most undaunted 
spirit I ever read of. Fear was a word of which she knew 
not the meaning. Her whole life was a series of bloody 
deeds and fearful crimes. She was a monster of wicked- 
ness. To read her black history, and know her to be a 
woman, is enough to fill the heart with shame and horror. 
But I will not write of her." 

"June 27. — The holy Sabbath has again dawned upon me. 
Again have I enjoyed those privileges I have so often 
abused, again felt those temptations that have so often sub- 
dued me, and as I take a retrospect of my thoughts, words, 
and actions this day, what do I find to be the account they 
have borne to Heaven ? Ah ! I dread to answer. Yet I 
will not deceive myself. With deep regret I confess that 
this sacred portion of time has passed away, even as many 
other Sabbaths have passed, in vain. Although I have this 
day enjoyed rich opportunities for improvement, I feel that 
my soul is scarcely nearer heaven than before ; not one link 
in the chain that binds my thoughts to this fleeting world 
and its vanities has been severed. Am I indeed any better 



SABBATH — BOOKS READ. 59 

prepared for the solemn duties and responsibilities of life 
than on the preceding Sabbath ? 

" Oh ! it is a fearful thing to thus misimprove our privi- 
leges. Oh, my Heavenly Father, give me clearer views of 
my obligations to thee, and grant thy Holy Spirit to in- 
cline my heart to the way of thy commandments." 

We are impressed from the perusal of each page 
of the journal with the constantly increasing interest 
in spiritual things. We mark the influence of self- 
examination, revealing much that was at variance 
with the gospel requirements. We can recall, too, 
the conversations of this period, how often they 
turned upon the solemn and impressive obligations 
of Christianity. 

" June 28. — Another day has gone. Nothing unusual has 
diversified it. The school duties completed, read portions of 
the life of Madam De Stael. She was a most interesting 
woman. I love to read of the splendid qualities that made 
up her character. What a compliment, that Bonaparte 
dared not have her in his dominions by reason of her pow- 
erful influence." 

" July 3. — "Went to Philadelphia to-day ; saw many in- 
teresting things. Visited the Chinese Museum. This, I 
found a most enchanting place. On entering the magnifi- 
cent saloon, the effect was truly indescribable, it seemed 
the work of magic. 

" Spent several hours here most delightfully. It is China 
in miniature. I have seen Fairmount, too, with its useful 
and artistic decorations. I gazed upon the whole with 
feelings of rapture. A white day in my existence is this. 
The memory of this most enchanting spot will never be 
effaced. My memory shall treasure its wealth of beauty and 
utility until I cease to love the charms of nature and art." 



60 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

The Chinese collection referred to, is the one 
made by Mr. Dunn, a man of great enterprise and 
taste. It was designed to be kept permanently in 
Philadelphia, but after a lengthy exhibition was re- 
moved. 

" July 5. — Read from the Memoir of Margaret Davidson. 
Was intensely interested. Such astonishing powers of mind, 
developed at so early an age, I never conceived of before. 
The inimitable pen of Irving has embalmed her sweet mem- 
ory for ever. She was, indeed, all that was lovely, as well 
as intellectually great. A sparkling gem in the constel- 
lation of American Literature." 

" July 8. — Visited, with some friends, for the first time 
the banks of the romantic Wissahickon, about two miles from 
Germantown. Nature never formed more wild and charm- 
ing scenery than skirts the borders of this stream. It 
seemed like my own New England. It made me so think 
of my distant home and cherished friends. May their lives 
be precious in the sight of Heaven. May temporal and 
spiritual blessings fall richly upon them, and may we all 
meet again on earth" 

"July 10. — Spent an hour this morning in the school- 
room relating to the young ladies some of the prominent 
characteristics of Margaret Davidson. They seemed much 
interested. 

' Lives of goodness must remind us 
We can make our lives sublime/ " 

Quick to observe the favorable moment for fixing 
the good impression, Miss Parker was equally ready, 
from the well-stored mind and heart, to call forth the 
fair example, or enforce the pure precept, — and all 
with such feeling and felicity, as to command the 



EPISCOPAL MANUAL — CHURCH. 61 

most reverent attention. The susceptible were thus 
happily led along the path of excellence, and the 
dull warmed to a new life of thought and power of 
comprehension. 

"July 11. — Sabbath evening. Have attended public 
worship to-day. Am I better for such blessings ? I fear I 
am not. Sabbath after Sabbath passes, and I feel a sinful, 
erring creature, no nearer Heaven in point of holiness.. 
When shall I live the life of the righteous, and grow in 
grace day by day? Oh for the gracious and sanctifying 
influence of God's Spirit, to effect in me that change that 
alone can fit for heaven." 

"July 13. — The hours of comparative leisure of late 
have been mostly given to the perusal of Irving's Astoria, 
and the Episcopal Manual." 

" July 15. — Visited at Mrs. H y's. Had a most de- 
lightful visit. Her mansion offers much of elegant hospi- 
tality. Called on Mrs. L ; met a most agreeable lady 

from Yirginia. This day I will mark with a white stone- 
Yes, I have been very happy." 

"July 18. — Attended church this morning, — heard a 
most beautiful discourse from Luke vii. 37th and 38th 
verses. In the sermon it was remarked, the deep feeling 
and tenderness of woman is ever lovely ; yet never so much 
so, as when her tears are the tears of penitence for her 
transgressions, and gratitude for her mercies. He remarkedi 
very beautifully on the goodness and benevolence of the 
blessed Saviour and his sympathy for the greatest sinners. 
Will he be my friend ? I, the chief of sinners ? Have dis- 
coursed much on several points in theology, but reason is 
weak when we would call on her alone to explain the things 
of God. I feel that my darkened understanding can alone 
be enlightened by throwing myself on God's mercy and 
6 



62 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

imploring his aid and direction. Sanctify me, O Lord, and 
lead me in the path to heaven." 

"July 19. — Have resumed to-day my lessons in Italian. 
It is the sweetest of all languages." 

"July 23. — Life passes with much of monotony, but this 
is inseparable from the occupation. Yet I feel that I am 
not entirely useless. This thought alone should make me 
happy and contented, in the circumstances in which a kind 
Providence has placed me." 

" July 24. — Read some extracts from the Biography of 
Madame De Stael in school this morning. I cannot con- 
template a mind like hers without the most ardent longing 
to turn aside from the beaten track of life, and explore those 
rich fields of observation, those secret recesses of thought, 
that the gifted few alone may enter. I feel immortal longings 
rise within me. I would consecrate my life, yea, my whole 
life, to improvement, — to the perfection of my whole nature. 
Would that I were the favored child of knowledge, placed 
in the midst of her treasures, initiated into her deep myste- 
ries. Surely I would be what I am not." 

Perhaps no extract we make can reveal more 
truthfully the desire of the heart and the aspirations 
of the mind than the preceding. 

" July 25. — Commenced the life of Hannah More to-day. 
I love to read the biography of those gifted ones whose deep 
and penetrating minds were sanctified by holiness and illu- 
minated by light from heaven." 

Miss Parker's reading at this period, as heretofore, 
was extensive and varied. But upon no pages did 
she dwell with greater interest than those from the 
gifted pen of her own sex. The vigor of thought 



LADY'S BOOK — MACAULAY. 63 

which characterizes Madam De Stael, the calm, for- 
cible, and just reasoning of Hannah More, gave their 
writings peculiar attractions. 

" July 29. — Was particularly struck with a few lines in 
the ' Editor's Table/ in the ' Lady's Book.' The writer 
speaking of the advancement of society, remarks, that in 
nothing is it so strikingly manifest, as in the fact, that during 
the last fifteen or twenty years, more has been written on the 
subject of female education, than all that has been written 
previously by any nation, or in any age of the world ; — 
and that, too, in a style, and from motives so entirely differ- 
ent. One being to make her the theme of ridicule and sat- 
ire ; the other from a desire to elevate her as a social and 
moral being, preparing her for the high destiny assigned her 
by heaven, to be the gentle minister of virtue, the guide and 
director of mind from its first opening, and through its suc- 
cessive developments. 

" Was also much impressed by reading the death of Wil- 
liam G. Clarke. Truly we ought not to mourn the early 
departure of such minds ; they have returned to their 
native heaven*" 

" July 31. — A rainy day, — have had a quiet morning at 
home alone, I love to be much alone. And yet not so, but 
to be with those glorious minds with which I, even I, may 
hold sweet communion through the works they have left, 
as rich legacies to those whose spiritual natures have been 
cast in a less ethereal mould. Have read Macaulay's Criti- 
cism on the works of the immortal Milton. . I greet every 
thing with rapture that can give me a more clear or just 
conception of his splendid genius. I bless the Dispenser of 
good, that among his noblest gifts to the children of men, 
has been the genius of Milton. For this the lover of a 
purely intellectual feast, can never be sufficiently thankful. 



64 BIOGEAPHICAL. 

This essayist makes some interesting remarks on the poetry 
of the early ages ; he thinks them every way more favor- 
able to the cultivation of poetry. 

" Language is then better fitted, as a vehicle of poetry, 
inasmuch as it deals more in particular images, than in gen- 
eral terms. To analyze human nature, requires much knowl- 
edge ; but the business of the poet is to portray and not to 
dissect. He may describe human actions, without ever 
being acquainted with the springs of human conduct. Na- 
tions in their infancy are like children, full of credulity and 
imagination, and every image that is produced to the mental 
eye, has the effect of reality. The Greek Rhapsodists could 
not recite Homer, without often falling into convulsions. 

" It produces an illusion that the light of knowledge dis- 
pels. Thus the most splendid proof of genius is a great 
poem, produced in a civilized age. He speaks finely on the 
effect of images on the mass of mankind, both in religion 
and politics. It is the basis of idolatry. 

" Never in any age or nation have the multitude worship- 
ped one pure, spiritual, indivisible Being. Although this 
was the theory of the Persians and the Jews, yet there 
was ever a struggle between it and this innate propensity 
of the heart. There is much of philosophy in the secondary 
causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapid spread of 
Christianity. While the incomprehensible and infinite 
God attracted few worshippers, the incarnate One, who 
knows the sufferings of mankind and alleviates their mise- 
ries, who suffered and died for their salvation, failed not to 
attract the attention of all, and to affect the hearts of the 
most obstinate. 

" Thus it is in politics. Within the last year I have 
noticed the astonishing effects of this principle, in the elec- 
tion of our late President. 

" A log cabin hoisted upon a pole had more sway over 



BYRON — HANNAH MORE. 65 

the minds of the vulgar throng, than the most brilliant essay 
could have had on the commanding and amiable qualities of 
their hero. This was well understood by the master minds 
who set in operation the great political machine by which 
our recent revolution was effected. 

" Read also Macaulay's criticism upon Byron. This 
I think very fair and just. No man has ever analyzed 
better the mysterious nature of this strange man. I could 
never join in the wholesale condemnation of this truly 
wonderful genius ; but while I read his dark story, I feel 
to pity rather than censure his errors." 

A high and almost holy admiration of genius was 
a characteristic of Miss Parker. This admiration 
was never marred by difference of creed or defect of 
character. It was the gift of poiver that riveted the 
sole attention. The godlike genius of Milton pre- 
cluded all possibility of his ever being contemplated 
by her as a man of misfortune, while the magnifi- 
cent grandeur of Byron's intellect shut from thought 
the defects of the moral being. The maja was indeed 
forgotten, — the genius only present 

" August 7* — Have spent a happy day ; -— gave our pu- 
pils portions of the Biography of Hannah More. I trust 
to present to their consideration those traits in the character 
of this excellent woman, that the emulation of them may 
conduce to their present and eternal good. Heaven bless 
my efforts, and grant that the instruction communicated this 
morning may have a bearing on the future destiny of these 
immortal beings. Oh ! when I stand at the judgment-seat, 
may it be my happiness to know that some one, at least, 
may have been led in the path to virtue and Heaven, by 
6* 



66 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

my instrumentality ! But how much I need to have the mo- 
tives of my actions purified by Divine grace, and colored 
foy the far-reaching future, rather than the narrow pres- 
ent." 

August 9. — " Have attended church to-day. Read in 
Hannah More's Memoirs. With what base ingratitude, 
with what malignant barbarity, were the noble and disinter- 
ested efforts of this most excellent woman, in behalf of the 
poor and ignorant, repaid. Such treatment and to such a 
woman, should learn us that kindness may be treated with 
meglect.; and the motives of our best efforts in the cause of 
ihumanity, may be wickedly misrepresented. But like her, 
may I ever persevere in my aims, to benefit my fellow- 
creatures, and leave the result with God. Would that I 
could imitate her in her humility, and practise her non-con- 
tfbrmity to this deluding world." 

" August 15. — Did not attend church this morning. 
Read Dr. Grant's History of the Nestorians, — a wonderful 
.book truly, and deeply interesting to me. Are they indeed 
rthe lost tribes of God's chosen people ? Yes, there is no 
reason for doubt. Every circumstance relating to their 
^present condition, location, habits, religion, etc., is a con- 
vincing argument to identify them with the lost tribes of 
Israel. They are truly a peculiar people, preserving them- 
selves entirely distinct from the nations ; keeping alive, 
without any intercourse with the rest of the Christian world, 
.the spark of true religion that they received from the apos- 
tles ; hungering and thirsting after knowledge, and a more 
thorough acquaintance with the principles of the gospel, 
they have so long believed. 

" They fasten themselves on our interest. Oh ! methinks 
that now I should love to go and instruct this interesting 
people. What a noble field for the laborers in Christ's vine- 
yard. Who can calculate the effect of this wonderful dis- 



MUSIC ITS INFLUENCE. 67 

co very with regard to their identity with the lost tribes, on 
the whole Christian world." 

" August 22. — Have attended church and enjoyed the 
exercises exceedingly. A new organ. What a powerful 
aid to devotion is sacred music ! It lifts the soul to heaven. 
Have completed to-day the Episcopal Manual. I find my 
love for the service and worship of this church increases. I 
do most earnestly desire to be a member of some church. 
I know my duty, help me Lord to fulfil it, in that way that 
is most in accordance with thy holy will. Enlighten and 
direct me, O my Heavenly Father ! I desire to live no 
longer disobedient to thy blest commands. My influence, by 
thy blessing, shall be wholly on the side of religion." 

The journal, at this time, speaks often and feel- 
ingly of increased religious sensibility, of uncom- 
promising self-examination, and sincere regret for 
omissions of religious duty. The heart seems deeply 
moved by the operations of that Spirit that guides 
into all truth. 

" August 29. — Sabbath. Went to church : sermon from 
the text, * Jesus is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.' 
Wish I could feel more deeply on religious subjects. Alas ! 
my heart is ice. It has no susceptibility on these momen- 
tous and deeply interesting themes. How shall I obtain a 
closer walk with God ? How shall my soul become filled 
with a pure and exalted love, to that kind Being whose 
mercies are to me so boundless ? The Sabbath is not to me 
what it ought to be to the Christian. It should be a day of 
close communion with God and my own heart ; and a time 
to gird up the soul with new armor for the active and trying 
duties that the week brings with it. Oh for the influence of 
the Holy Spirit, to lead me to the feet of my Saviour. 
There alone can my troubled spirit find rest." 



68 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

" September 4. — Finished reading Hayley's Life of Cow- 
per. He was truly a most singular and wonderful being, 
yet interesting in the highest degree. The web of his fate 
was comprised of dark and gloomy threads indeed ; yet it 
was relieved by much of softened beauty and brightness. 
Why should he have been so often wretched, who, of all 
men, had so many true, disinterested, and devoted friends? 
Indeed I never read of such friendships. I could scarcely 
believe they were not the work of fiction. How darkly 
shrouded must have been his mind with the sable mantle of 
melancholy, that the magic of such affection should have 
been powerless upon it. He was truly a good man ; yet 
he has left us in his mournful story another proof that 

1 The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown.' " 

" September 5. — Have been to church to-day. Heard a 
sermon that I shall never forget. It was delivered by the 
Rev. Mr, Nevil of Philadelphia. Text, 'It is finished/ 
Never did I hear such a powerful, so convincing, so awaken- 
ing a discourse. How often have I heard the story of my 
Saviour's death and sufferings wholly unmoved. Yes, even 
felt weary of it as a worn-out theme. But to-day I have 
seen him nailed to the cross for my transgressions, and 
heard him cry, * It is finished ! ' and felt in some good de- 
gree the height and depth of his love and mercy. 

" Have again witnessed the solemn celebration of the 
Lord's Supper. Would that I could say that I had par- 
taken of it. What is it that keeps me away from the table 
of my Lord ? Would it not be the highest privilege my 
soul could desire, to sit down with the people of God at this 
glorious feast? I feel that I do most earnestly desire it; 
yet I know I am not worthy. When shall I be more so ? 
Is it not the darkest ingratitude to my Saviour to neglect to 
obey his last command, ' Do this in remembrance of me ? ' 



VACATION — THEBES — JERUSALEM. 69 

Lord make my way plain before me, and give a desire to 
obey all thy commandments." 

" September 6. — Closed school to-day for a vacation of a 
few weeks. Although I love those with whom I have been 
so intimately and tenderly associated, yet I am delighted 
with the prospect of a short recess for rest and recreation. 
Oh for some quiet, world-distant nook, to which I might 
retreat, where the wayward passions of my soul might be 
hushed to rest ! And yet not so ; I love to be useful to my 
fellow-beings." 

" Philadelphia, September 8. — Came to town to-day. 
Have a delightful boarding place, but I do not love strange 
faces." 

" September 9. — Have attended church to-day." 

"September 13. — Have been to see the splendid pano- 
rama of Jerusalem. This was a rare source of pleasure to 
me. Indeed I feel as if I had stood within the limits of the 
holy city. How rich and interesting in associations ! Its 
history, how varied and full of incident ! and yet its present 
aspect as a whole is miserable. It bears on its face the sad 
effects of the changes that have swept over it. The cres- 
cent that surmounts the splendid mosque of St. Omar shows 
under whose dominion it groans. As I looked upon it, I 
could not but feel how natural it was, in view of its coming 
sorrows, Christ should shed over it tears of compassion. 
When will the Jews be restored to this much loved city, 
and the proud Moslem cease to lord it over the spot, so hal- 
lowed and sacred to all believers ? " 

" September 14. — Panorama of Thebes to-day. This 
surpasses Jerusalem. It is magnificent. What stupendous 
ruins ! Time, what hast thou done ! Yet thou hast spared 
enough to give us some idea of the splendor of this ancient 
city. It must, indeed, have been built by a highly civilized 
people. Where are they now ? Their ruined monuments, 



70 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

towering aloft in solitary grandeur, mournfully answer, 
4 Where ? ' The wild Arab roams among them, utterly un- 
conscious of the genius of the place. Alas ! how little we 
know of the past. Nations have arisen, flourished, and 
passed away ; while naught but the crumbling stone and 
falling tower remain to show that they have been, but are 
no more." 

" September 15. — Read ' Stephens's Travels in Central 
America.' How happy I am while reading a book like this. 
I have lived to-day only with the past. I envy the author 
the terrible dangers he passed; for w^hat comparison do 
they bear with the satisfaction and interest one must feel in 
exploring the time-worn monuments of a people who have 
ceased to exist, and who have no place on the page of 
history." 

"September 19. — Went to Dr. Bethune's church this 
morning. Heard a very good sermon by a clergyman, who 
supplies his place until his return from Europe, whither he 
has gone for his health. 

"This evening, accompanied E to the Unitarian 

church to hear Mr. F . He is a splendid reasoner ; calm, 

dispassionate in his manner, clear and comprehensive in his 
views. But what, alas! can such sermons effect on the 
common class of mind ? Merely nothing. They would be 
nicely adapted to an audience composed of pure, spiritual 
beings ; but to man as he is, they would be like the sun- 
shine playing upon the water, but never penetrating the 
dark depths below." 

" September 20. — What a useless day ! Indeed I do not 
know what has become of it. It has gone and left no trace 
behind ; no advancement in virtue and knowledge. Nothing 
could induce me to live to so little purpose as at pres- 
ent. Yet thousands live thus, just as if it was all of life to 
live." 



a crowd — sully's gallery. 71 

I have lost a day, said the imperial master of 
Rome. With regret was this confession made by 
the pagan ruler. How shall the more enlightened 
meet the fearful account, not of a lost day merely, 
but weeks, months, and years, yea, a whole life sacri- 
ficed to idleness and vanity ? 

" September 21. — I have had what I have long desired, 
an opportunity of meeting Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. She is a 
woman for whose character I have much admiration." 

"September 23. — Have been to see the Horticultural 
Exhibition to-day. There was a rare collection of fruits 
and flowers, and I should have taken a world of pleasure in 
looking at them, but for the crowd of gazers. From my 
soul I abhor a throng. Of course my stay was the briefest 
possible. If Gabriel himself was set up for exhibition, he 
could have no attraction for me if I must see him through 
the chinks of a multitude." 

" September 25. — Visited Sulley's gallery of paintings. 
Admired some of the pieces very much. What a picture of 
my Saviour I saw there ! Such a countenance of agony, of 
anguish, of intensest sorrow met my eye. I could not look 
at it again, it would melt my soul." 

September 26. — Sabbath. A lovely day. Went to Dr. 
Tyng's church this morning, but did not hear him. It was 
a great disappointment. Heard quite a good sermon, how- 
ever, upon self-denial. True, it is only the right hind that 
will avail us aught. All the world practise self-denial from 
various motives. To how much inconvenience the worldling 
puts himself to gain the applause of those around him. 
After all, the self-denial of the Christian is much less than 
that of the sinner; but it is different in kind, and more 
easily practised. While that of the latter is perfect slavery, 
that of the former is consistent with the purest freedom." 



72 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

"September 30. — Returned to Germantown to-day. How 
really dull the country now seems. I shall soon like it, 
however ; one is exposed to fewer temptations, conse- 
quently it is easier to lead a consistent life. 

" How charming is this night ! the full moon shines glo- 
riously, and every thing looks so beautiful in the soft light. 
This is the last day of September, yet the trees and shrub- 
bery have lost none of their summer magnificence. How 
different is this from my own New England ! There the 
forests, on which I have gazed from infancy, are now in all 
the glory of their autumnal hues. Oh, my home, beautiful 
art thou now to my fancy ; would that I could fly to thee ! " 

" October 3. — A more dreary day I never knew, — rain- 
ing all the time. Have read in Degerando's Visitor to the 
Poor. Like all that this splendid author has written, it 
does honor to the mind from whence it emanated. Our du- 
ties and obligations to the poor, — their wants and necessi- 
ties are presented to the mind in a striking and impressive 
manner. Strange that we feel so little for the children of 
want and sorrow. I think our coldness arises less from sel- 
fishness, than ignorance of their condition." 

" October 4. — Commenced school again to-day. How 
vastly responsible is my situation ! I feel that, humble as I 
am, the consequences of my words and actions may have a 
bearing through eternity on the destiny of others. Solemn 
thought. Give me thy aid, O my Father, to discharge my 
duties faithfully. May thy blessing rest upon my humble 
labors for the good of others. May my motives and springs 
of action be pure and right in thy sight, and even I be the 
instrument of advancing in some degree the interests of 
my fellow-beings." 

"October 15. — Another week has ended, a week of toil, 
and the Saturday night has come. Welcome to it. In the 
retrospective of the past week, I find much in thoughts, 



PATRICK HENRY — HIS ORATORY. 73 

feelings, and actions, to condemn. I am many leagues from 
perfection. When shall I learn to be amiable and good ? 
Never until I put on immortality." 

"October 23. — Gave to the young ladies of the school a 
biography of Patrick Henry. Truly he was a wonderful 
man. A masterpiece from the hand of nature, and so per- 
fect, as the author remarks, that she would not allow art to 
touch him. He was an orator formed after no model.. Yet 
from Demosthenes to the present time, no man probably has 
possessed in an equal degree that gift of genius, — the power 
of perfectly entrancing an audience, and holding them spell- 
bound by the fascinations of eloquence. His was like the 
mountain torrent, carrying with it the flowers and the ver- 
dure of the soil over which it forced its irresistible course. 
No man ever exercised such despotic sway over the hearts 
and feelings of others. Now would he melt the soul of the 
hearer into pity and compassion ; now excite the fiercest in- 
dignation, and anon convulse the listener into laughter. 

" He was a man of whom every American heart should 
feel proud ; indeed, had our land numbered no Henry among 
her sons, I believe we might yet have been the vassals of 
Great Britain. He set in motion, by the force of his own 
intellect, the mighty machinery that crushed beneath its 
weight the British lion, yet raised him to the temple of 
fame. Where are the men of the present time that are 
worthy to be placed in comparison with this master spirit 
of his age, or with that splendid constellation of truly great 
men, and pure patriots, that graced the Virginia House of 
Burgesses." 

" October 24. — Have been to church to-day. Heard a 
good discourse on the forgiveness of our enemies. I sin- 
cerely hope I may have grace to enable me to put it in 
practice. A moment's reflection on the innumerable provo- 
cations we daily give to our Heavenly Father, and his pa- 

7 



74 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

tience and longsuffering towards us, should at once disarm 
us of those unhallowed feelings that rise in the soul at an 
imaginary or real injury from our fellow-creatures. 

" How beautiful, how Christ-like is the spirit of true for- 
giveness. ' Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do,' unveils the Divinity — God manifest in the 
flesh. How ardent should indeed be our prayer for the in- 
dwelling of this same spirit of free and perfect forgiveness 
towards those who have in any manner injured us. Espe- 
cially should we practise this most excellent of Christian 
graces, remembering we have so much for which we hope 
to be forgiven. We are permitted to ask only in this man- 
ner, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who tres- 
pass against us." 

"November 8. — Sabbath again. Went to church to-day ; 
heard an excellent sermon on gratitude. How little we 
think of our manifold blessings, or the source from whence 
they flow. We must be sinful beings indeed, to make it 
requisite that the Author of our mercies should remove them 
from us in order that we may have some just appreciation 
of their number and magnitude. Yet it is even so. 

" Heard a missionary sermon this afternoon. I wish I 
could become more engaged in the important subject of mis- 
sions. It is a glorious, soul-ennobling work. It is the 
cause of humanity, and worthy of the noblest faculties of 
the soul. The efforts of the friends of man, ignorant and 
unenlightened man, are changing the moral face of the 
world. Never was an age so interesting as the present. I 
am thankful that I live in this era. Yet it will be in vain 
if I do nothing to aid the moral elevation of my fellow- 
creatures." 

" November 15. — Commenced to-day the Memoirs of 
Mrs. Hemans. I love to read of her character. She was 
all that was lovely and interesting. Oh that she had not 



MRS. HEMANS — EARLY DEATH. 75 

died so young! But alas! early death is the destiny of 
genius. It is the price it pays for its glorious gifts. Had 
this sweet poetess been longer spared, what might she not 
have accomplished, and yet perhaps it is well that it should 
be thus, since she has left nothing behind her that Purity 
herself would wish effaced. Of how few can this proud 
eulogy be said. How often does genius, which soars eagle- 
like to heaven, stoop from its high sphere to soil its bright 
wings with the clay of earth. 

" What a dealer she was in the affections ! Upon whatever 
subject she wrote, from whatever point she started in her 
poetic flights, she was like the dove, that found no resting- 
place but the bright green spot of the heart's affections. 
What an uncongenial world is this for a soul like Mrs. 
Hemans ! How few sympathies, how many rude shocks it 
would meet, how many vacuums that imperfect humanity 
would fail to fill ! She should ever be spoken of 

' As a bird from a chain unbound, 
As a wanderer whose home is found/ " 

" November 16. — A letter from my dear brother to-day. 
Truly, I love him with the heart's deepest devotion." 

" November 20. ■ — Wrote to M- to-day, Truly, I love 

to write to my friends. The weather exceedingly gloomy ; 
ifc has a sad effect on my spirits. How mysterious a 
thing is the mind ! A word, a look, a sound, a bright or 
gloomy sky have power to thrill it with strange emotions, — 
to light it up with the day-beams of gladdess, or shroud it 
in the mantle of sorrow. Truly, we are fearfully and won- 
derfully made." 

" November 21. — Have been to church this morning. 
The more I become acquainted with the doctrines and ser- 
vices of the Episcopal Church, the better I love and enjoy 
them. Certainly a sincere and trusting soul, offering to 



76 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

God its desires in the beautiful and appropriate language of 
its Liturgy, must be acceptable to the Majesty on High." 

" November 25. — This is Thanksgiving day in my dear 
Granite State. Oh for thy wings, thou dove, to bear me 
thither to the arms of my dear family ! 

" A seat at their luxurious board, what sacrifice would I 
not make for that one privilege. Yet not that I might share 
the dainties that a fond mother has undoubtedly provided, — 
oh, no ! there is something far dearer in the looks of those 
my childhood loved, in the kindly exchange of the heart's 
best feelings, in the warm sympathies of tried friends. 
Alas ! it cannot be. Well, let me be content, it is best that 
it should be thus." 

" November 28. — Sabbath. Heard a very good discourse 
this morning upon the value of pure religion. 

" Alone, this evening, as I love to be. How much better 
I should be if I was more frequently alone, with my own 
heart, and my God ! It is only then I feel that I grow 
better, that I reflect what I am, and whither I am hastening. 
I believe that it is only in solitude that we live as we ought, 
— not that it is wrong to indulge in society, when prop- 
erly selected, I think it conducive to improvement ; but we 
make it too much a means of passing enjoyment, rather 
than that of moral advancement. I have felt much this 
eve the importance of leading a holier life, — such a life 
as will fit me for a nobler state of being. 

" How little we think of the dignity of our natures, 
the importance of consistency in daily conduct, of pure 
and elevated aims in all our actions." 

" December 10. — Commenced reading Bos well's Life of 
Johnson. Have been much interested. I love to read the 
life of a distinguished man. It is pleasant to dwell on 
those specimens of humanity, who have traced out for them- 
selves a glorious path to fame, and done honor to the race. 



JOHNSON — EPISCOPAL CHURCH. 77 

"What so noble, so commanding, as a mind that can 
originate beautiful thoughts, — thoughts that penetrate other 
minds with an omnipotent power, and unseal the passion 
fountains of the soul, kindling in the before torpid spirit 
an inextinguishable love of excellence, a thirst for higher 
things than the dull realities of life ! Such a mind is indeed 
a ray from heaven, a spark of the Infinite and Eternal 
Spirit." 

" December 12. — Sabbath. I have this day resolved to 
connect myself with the Episcopal Church. Oh may I 
be enabled to try my own heart, and examine myself by the 
tests of God's word ! It is a difficult thing to be a consistent 
Christian in this world of temptation. But our Heavenly 
Father has promised the Holy Spirit to those that rely on 
him." 

"December 13. — Read Johnson this evening. What a 
treat the conversation of such a man must have been. So 
rich in argument, so profound in observation, so nice in 
judging. There is scarcely a subject connected with man, 
or his duties as a rational and accountable being, on which 
Johnson has not by his writings, or his conversation, given 
us new, enlarged, and interesting views- Truly his mind 
was gigantic. He was a mental Hercules. But what an 
exterior. With all his greatness and affluence of knowl- 
edge, it astonished me that he ever had a friend. Yet there 
were many that professed themselves his sincere .admirers." 

" December 14. — There is much of dull uniformity in 
the life of a teacher : yet I would not be useless. I often 
think of Johnson's remark, while himself a teacher, " Vitam 
continet una dies," — one day contains the whole of life. 
But enjoyment is not the great end of existence here. Oh, 
no ! that is reserved for a higher state of being." 

" December 18. — Saturday, — a quiet, happy day." 

" December 1.9. — This is a day in my life that I shall 
7* 



78 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

never cease to remember, a day in which I have publicly 
consecrated myself to God and his service. Solemn trans- 
action ! I trembled to do it for my sinfulness. Yet I felt 
;to bless God for the opportunity and privilege of uniting 
myself with his people. 

M - Almighty and everlasting God, may the solemn conse- 
cration which I have this day made of myself to thee, 
in thy house, be accepted through Jesus Christ my Lord. 
And grant, O merciful Father, that I may hereafter lead a 
righteous, godly, and sober life, to the glory of thy holy 
name. May I ever keep in mind that I am no longer 
to live to myself alone, but to Him who hath loved, and 
.died for me, — that the great end of existence is doing good 
;and preparation for heaven. Help me, O Lord, ever to wear 
ithe armor of religion, and to overcome, through thy assist- 
ance, the sinfulness of my own heart, and the temptations 
of the world. May I never forget the divorce I have made 
between myself and this vain world ; and may its allurements 
aao longer have dominion over me. Give me, most merciful 
Parent, a clean heart, right motives, the forgiveness of my 
sins, and the constant assistance of thy Holy Spirit, while 
journeying through this vale of tears. Be pleased to grant 
ithese requests in the name, and the merits of my Saviour, 
to whom with thee and the Spirit, be all honor and praise 
forever, Amen. 

" We have had to-day two excellent sermons from the 
Bishop. Subject this morning was ' sorrow.' This even- 
ing the story of the good Samaritan, and its application. 
They were treated in a masterly manner. How much I 
prize such sermons. The Bishop seems a very devout, 
good man. The blessing of such a man cannot be in vain." 

" December 25. — My first Christmas in Pennsylvania. I 
have enjoyed it. To-day I have been to the communion for 
the first time in my life. I felt thankful that the privilege 



MEMBERSHIP WITH THE CHURCH. 79 

was granted me ; but could not feel that love to God and 
Christ, and that appreciation of the inestimable blessings of 
redemption that I desired. The exercises of the church 
appeared unusually solemn and impressive to-day. The 
person that feels no devotion from the language of the 
Liturgy, must indeed be cold and languid in religion." 

" December 28. — Finished the Life of Johnson. How 
solemn is the closing scene in the life of a great man ! 
What a leveller is death ! The man of lofty and expanded 
intellect, and he to whom Nature has been the least bounti- 
ful, are brought to the same equality ." 



CHAPTER VI. 

REFLECTIONS UPON THE NEW YEAR — THE JOURNAL — RE- 
SUMING SCHOOL DUTIES — BOOKS READ — BIRTH-DAY OF 

WASHINGTON — THE SABBATH BIRTH-DAY REFLECTIONS 

— LETTER — JOURNAL — VISIT HOME — RETURN TO GER- 
MANTOWN — SICKNESS OF HER MOTHER — CLOSE OF 1842. 

"January 1, 1842. — Another year has fled and another 
is begun. How swift are the footsteps of time ! How wise 
that his steps are counted, and parcelled out into days and 
months and years ; otherwise we should be insensible to his 
progress, and carried along all unconsciously, to the bound- 
less ocean of eternity ! The close of such periods of time 
may be compared to eminences in the journey of human 
life, to which we may ascend, and view the path we have 
left behind us ; contemplate the difficulties of the way, the 
temptations to which we have been exposed, the dangers 
from which we have escaped, the thousand windings that 
have attracted us from duty and happiness, and from such a 
view to gather up wisdom and instruction for the remainder 
of our pilgrimage. How fleeting a thing is life ! It has 
no hold upon the present, which is ever like the lightning's 
flash, and ere we can say it is here, it is gone. The future 
is merely a shadow which it casts before, on which it is the 
summit of folly to place dependence. 

" With me, the past year has had few vicissitudes ; its cur- 
rent has passed radidly, although smoothly and evenly along. 



NEW YEAR — BLESSINGS. 81 

True, it has removed me from the circle in which I was 
accustomed to revolve, to one of more arduous and responsi- 
ble duties. It has removed me from the loved haunts of 
my childhood, and the heart's tried and earliest friends, to a 
land of strangers, — a land whose every feature reminds me 
that I am far from the familiar scenes of home, yet my 
enjoyments are not lessened. For though some choice 
ingredients have been taken from my cup of happiness, 
others have been added, so that the sum total of my 
pleasures remains nearly unabated. 

I find on reviewing the year, that it has been crowned 
with the goodness and lovingkindness of a beneficent Crea- 
tor. Mercies have constantly flowed on every hand, and I 
have abundant cause for gratitude, that no wasting sickness 
or death has invaded the cherished band with which I claim 
affinity ; but that prosperity and peace have marked our lot. 
Father in Heaven, I thank thee for these thy rich blessings. 
May they be continued, though we are undeserving ; and 
the year on which we have entered bring the same tokens 
of thy fatherly care and kindness. May our past offences 
be forgiven for Christ's sake, and our future lives wholly 
devoted to Thee. Oh may our whole trust be in Heaven, 
and wilt thou take us this year under thy guardian and pro- 
tecting love. May no moral or physical ill fall upon us ; 
but may all our goings be ordered by thy wise Providence, 
for thy glory and our eternal good. Wilt thou grant us the 
constant assistance of thy Holy Spirit, and a firm reliance 
upon the merits of our Saviour, and thine shall be the 
praise for ever more, Amen." 

So closes the first year whose record we have 
gathered mostly from the Journal. Almost without 
note or comment, have the extracts been given. 

These are sufficiently minute, requiring but little 



82 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

explanation to render the narrative full and satisfac- 
tory. Through another year we continue the history, 
aided mostly by the diary alone. 

" January 3, 1842. — It has seemed difficult to resume my 
duties in school to-day after this short recess. But habit 
will soon restore me to my usual feelings. How wise an 
arrangement is this, the power of adapting ourselves to cir- 
cumstances. Were it otherwise we should be miserable in- 
deed ; we are so constituted physically and mentally, that 
pleasures and pains cease to affect us as such, as they lose 
their novelty, or at least in some considerable degree they 
lose their power. But joy is more evanescent than sorrow, 
and not only so, but very dependent upon it. For almost 
all our enjoyments consist in relief from pain, and we be- 
come insensible to them when we cease to remember our for- 
mer griefs. Is not this because the indulgence of pleasure 
long continued would be dangerous, in causing us to forget 
the mutability of the world in which we dwell, and because 
sorrow is so salutary in its ministry, by pointing to a world 
where hope's flowerets bloom not to fade ? Every thing 
around us is a monitor, with a deep-toned solemn voice, 
were our spirits less encumbered with the cares of this busy 
and engrossing world." 

" January 20. — Commenced reading Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire." 

" February 22. — The anniversary of the birth-day of our 
immortal Washington. In answer to a petition from the 
young ladies of our school, we have given this afternoon as 
a holiday, — the morning having been spent in rehearsing 
some of the uncommon merits of his character. This can- 
not be too often done in these days of party zeal and anni- 
mosity, — of selfishness, pride, and ostentation. 

" To go back, even in imagination, to the simple spirit- 



WASHINGTON ANNIVERSARY. 83 

stirring days of our forefathers, investing ourselves with 
their spirit, is like visiting a refreshing and fertile country, 
after a long pilgrimage in the desert. Will the days of 
Washington ever return, and his spirit animate the hearts 
of the American people ? " 

" March 7. — Sabbath. Felt very desirous to attend 
church, but was prevented by unpleasant weather. How 
many mercies have I experienced since the last Sabbath 
dawned upon me. 

" I have been preserved through an attack of sickness and 
raised again to health. Mercies have encompassed me on 
every side, and I feel that I have great cause for gratitude. 
Surely there is an over-ruling Providence that is graciously 
unfolding my destiny." 

" April 20. — Alas ! how have I neglected my poor 
Journal. How difficult it is to practise thorough self-exami- 
nation, to scrutinize the motives of our conduct, the princi- 
ples by which we are governed, and to try our weak and 
imperfect characters by the tests of the gospel. It is hu- 
miliating to our pride to acknowledge to ourselves all the 
frailty and sinfulness of our motives, to lay open our hearts 
to our own gaze ; — how much more to the searching glance 
of the All-seeing eye. How can that eye look upon me 
with complacency ? I have done much this day and this 
week that is wrong. I desire to feel penitence for all my 
manifold offences, and humbly resolve a more holy life, 
God's grace assisting me. 

" But I fear often in my eager desire to conciliate, that 
my repentance springs rather from a sorrow for the evil 
and unhappy consequences of an action, than for the action 
itself." 

" April 28. — My birth-day anniversary. I have been 
reviewing my Journal for the past, and I find from this, and 
my own recollection, that God has dealt very mercifully 



84 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

with me. My earnest prayer for a more active and useful 
life has been granted, my opportunities for doing good have 
been increased. I find myself surrounded by many agreea- 
ble circumstances. My health, and that of my dear family, 
has been preserved, and the dew of my Heavenly Father's 
blessing has constantly and abundantly descended upon my 
path. This year of my life will be remembered with peculiar 
pleasure. I have passed none more happily. It has united 
me externally with the people of God, and given me the 
privilege of enjoying the rich feast of my Saviour's dying 
love. Not only have I been brought to make a public pro- 
fession of religion, but I feel that I have been providentially 
placed in those circumstances where my mind has been 
enlightened, and my views corrected and enlarged upon the 
important subject of Christ's church, and I can but feel that 
I have been led into that branch of it that is truly apostolic 
in its origin, and under the peculiar care and protection of 
God, and that has received, and will continue to receive his 
richest blessings. For this I can never be sufficiently grate- 
ful. Most merciful Father, grant that I may never by an 
undue attachment to this sinful world, or an unholy life, 
bring dishonor on the church, and the religion I would 
adorn. 

" How different my situation from my last birth-day. I 
was then in my own home, surrounded by the much loved 
friends of my childhood, — free from care. Now the trials 
and responsibilities of a teacher are resting upon me, and 
an influence is being exerted for which I must answer 
at the bar of God. But for all this, I thank my Father in 
heaven that he has placed me here, — that he has ex- 
tended my sphere of action ; above all, that he has given 
me the love and companionship of a kind and gentle friend, 
to sympathize in each joy and sorrow. For all these mer- 
cies, and thousands that descend upon me, unheeded and 



INVOCATION — LETTER. 85 

unnoticed, I desire a grateful heart. May the coming year, 
if it is spared to me, be spent in the service of my Preserver 
and Benefactor. Thou who art the Author of my being, 
wilt thou grant thy blessing upon the year on which I have 
entered. I would consecrate it to thee. I would throw my- 
self on Thy protection. Wilt thou mercifully unfold my 
destiny, and whether life or death, sickness or health, pros- 
perity or affliction, be my portion this year ; wilt thou be 
my friend and support ; and may I, in all things be willing, 
to say, ' Thy will be done.' " 

We interrupt the continuous extracts from the 
Journal to give place to a letter addressed to her 
youngest brother, as expressive of her interest and 
affection, — as expressive, too, of her just estimate of 
religious principle in its bearing upon the character. 

" Germantown, May 4, 1842 5 . 
" My very dear Brother, — Since I heard that yon 
had left home, I have thought of you very much. I feel 
more anxious for your 'welfare than you can imagine. Of 
the depth of a sister's love you can never fully know. Life 
has no surer test for the principles of the mind or heart than 
the first engagement with the world. Then it is that we- 
feel we stand alone beyond the reach of the judicious 
advice and friendly counsel of those who have no interest 
in deceiving us. You, my dear brother, know very little of 
the temptations that beset the young man on every side- 
They will fall in your path. Do you feel that you have 
strength to resist, and always to do right? To take the 
course that conscience would approve, that a retrospect of 
life would render pleasing ? If I knew that you were gov- 
erned by Christian principle — the only principle that can- 
stand the harsh encounter of a world like this — I should 
8 



86 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

have no fears. But without gospel principle, what is man ? 
He is like a ship in the midst of the ocean, stripped of her 
rudder and pilot, the sport of the wind and waves. Be de- 
termined to be something, and to do something worth living 
for. Remember, it is in your power to be whatever you 
choose. Prove yourself worthy the capacities with which a 
beneficent Creator has endowed you. Be thorough in your 
studies. Never be ignorant of a subject through fear of 
showing that you are not already acquainted with it. This 
is a kind of pride that has nothing noble or praiseworthy in 
it. Among your various studies do not neglect the Bible. 
It is the word of the living God, how shall we escape if we 
read it with inattention ? Will you not read it, my dear 
brother, daily ? When the sorrows of the world come upon 
you, or you reach the close of life, you will not then regret 
compliance with this proper request. Perhaps you will feel 
disposed to think lightly of the counsel given, — think it too 
serious or uncalled for ; but it is certainly sincere, and from 
the overflowing of a full heart. 

" Ever your affectionate sister, 

' "J. A. Parker." 

[The JoumaL] 

"June 19. — Sabbath. A few moments before church 
with my journal, the repository of so many of my soul's most 
secret thoughts. How strange that almost two months have 
passed without any record of my feelings. Yet I regret 
not that many of them have left no trace behind. I ask no 
power to draw such from the wave of oblivion that has 
passed over them. There let them dwell. Yet there are 
some I would gladly remember, — some regrets for the past, 
some resolutions for the future. And why ? Not that the 
former have availed' much towards my moral improvement, 
or the latter been inviolably kept. Ah, no ! but to show me 



JOURNAL — HOLIDAYS — HOME. 87 

my own weakness and inability, — my constant need of that 
" gift of strength " that can alone enable me to fulfil in a 
proper manner my duties to God and my fellow -beings. 
How painful the review of the past, that finds nothing done 
aright, when both word and action spring from wrong mo- 
tives, where besetting sins still exercise strong dominion, 
where thoughts and affections are wrapped in the coils of 
this unsatisfying world ! But blessed be God that there is 
forgiveness with Thee ; that there is a fountain where the 
soul may w r ash itself from the stains of earth, a robe of 
righteousness that it may put on, whose moral purity even 
the pure eye of God may behold with approval." 

" July 4. Holiday. Spent the day very pleasantly with 
Mrs. P , a fine specimen of a transplanted New Eng- 
land lady. I have much admiration for her." 

"August 5. The school, for the present season, has 
closed. I can scarcely realize it, except from the perturba- 
tion of heart, resulting from the arduous exercises of the 
day. Our pupils have acquitted themselves most nobly. I 
am to be reprieved for a time from the cares and responsi- 
bilities of a teacher's life. Yes, and the pleasures too ; for 
such it can boast. But the question will come up, how 
have my duties been performed? Conscience answers, 
feebly and imperfectly. Gracious Parent, grant that what- 
ever has been wrong in influence, precept, and example, 
may be counteracted by thy Holy Spirit, be sincerely 
repented of, and blotted out of the account that I must 
render to Thee at the last day, by the blood of Christ my 
Lord." 

" August 14. — Sunday. Yesterday reached home — my 
own dear home. My dear parents, brothers, sister, all here, 
— not one link in the blessed chain broken or lost. Be 
thankful my heart, — rejoice in the goodness of a merciful 
Providence. Another year has fled. Death's arrows have 



88 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

been no less busy than they are wont to be, and yet none of 
us have fallen before this insatiate archer." 

The letters and the Journal at this period speak 
often of the pleasure of this brief visit home. One 
circumstance arose to overshadow this happiness, — 
the declining health of her mother. It had not been 
firm for years, and as the chill winds of the late 
autumn came, there was a marked change, and fears 
of a more speedy form of consumption were enter- 
tained. Previous to this unexpected development, 
Miss Parker had returned to Pennsylvania again. 
The mid-winter brought the certainty of death. 
"When it could no longer fail to be communicated, 
the reception of the sad intelligence is thus referred 
to in the Journal : — 

" December 16. — It is long, very long since I have penned 
a thought for my Journal. But now my poor heart is over- 
flowing, and I would fain pour out my grief. This evening, 
I have had the fearful intelligence that my dear mother is 
beyond the hope of recovery, and I far away. Thus for- 
bidden to minister to her wants, to stand beside her couch 
of suffering, and take a long last look of those features that 
have ever beamed upon her child with unutterable tender- 
ness and affection, — to listen once more to the tones of that 
voice that is soon to be silenced in death. Oh ! must it be 
thus ? Can I not fly to that dear home that contains all that 
I most deeply love, that is to me the one spot of all the 
earth ? Must it be that I am never to behold that face and 
form so beloved, to receive from those lips no parting bless- 
ing, no parting advice ? Gracious Father, canst Thou not, 
wilt Thou not spare her a little longer, that I may meet her 



SORROW — CHRISTMAS — SABBATH. 89 

once more on earth ? But hush, my full heart. There is a 
directing hand that marks out all events in wisdom and 
mercy, that sends afflictions as well as blessings for thy 
good. I fully know this, but I cannot feel it. Oh that I 
could say from the soul, God's holy will be done ! Oh that 
I could feel resigned to this most heavy stroke of his Prov- 
idence, that I could feel that my dear mother is bidding adieu 
to a world of cares and anxieties, of sorrow and distress, for 
a peaceful and everlasting home, where tears, partings, and 
farewells are unknown ! Why should I wish to keep her from 
a mansion of rest, which a kind Parent has prepared for his 
sorrowing children, wearied with their earthly pilgrimage 
and longing for a heavenly home ? Rather let me mourn that 
I am to be left alone, with no mother to love or counsel, 
to fold me to her heart, when all others have grown cold or 
forgetful : — 

* O life, thou art a heavy load, 
A long, a rough, and thorny road, 
To mortals such as JJ " 

" December 25. — Christmas and Sabbath, — a day of 
loveliness and beauty without, the welcome anniversary of 
the birth of the Redeemer. Oh for a heart of gratitude 
and love for the inestimable gift of a Saviour! Without 
Him, where would have been the only hope that can 
illumine the soul in this benighted world, and cast a cheer- 
ing ray into the far distant future ? What a mockery were 
life, and the aspirations of the spirit for a wider scene of 
things, if the heavenly words had not reached us, i In my 
Father's house are many mansions.' And friendship, too, 
and love, those fearful words in our present state of being 
where every thing within and around us is stamped with 
change, decay, and death. 

" Oh ! would they not have proved a cup of gall to the 
8* 



90 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

thirsting soul, instead of a refreshing balm, had we never 
known that Jesus had smiled on human affection, and 
pointed to a world where it should be transplanted and 
bloom in perennial and unfading beauty ! How does it 
teach us the sinfulness of the heart, to know that it can ever, 
yea often forget the price at which our salvation has been 
•purchased ! To-day I have again been permitted to partake 
of the symbols of the great sacrifice once offered for sin. 
•Just one year since I first knelt at this same altar, and 
openly professed my hope of eternal life through that 
Mediator by whom alone we can be saved ; openly re- 
nounced my allegiance to this sinful world, and placed my- 
self with the children of God. 

" Many times have I shared in this rich feast of dying 
love. How have I improved them ? Am I really better 
prepared for a future state of holiness and happiness ? Are 
the ties less strong that bind me to the perishable things of 
earth ? Alas, how hesitating are the answers of conscience ! 
How much cause do I find for penitence and humility in 
broken resolutions, deadness to faith, and ingratitude to 
God ! Heavenly Father ! if thou dost spare me to behold 
again the dawn of this day, may I have less occasion for 
regret ; may the coming year witness my renewed diligence 
in Christian life ; and above all, may I neverf orget That 
Thou alone art my strength and portion for ever." 

" December 31. — Thou old year art about to bid 
us farewell for ever. What report dost thou bear to 
heaven of thy dealings with me ? Canst thou write in that 
book, wherein are registered in fearful characters the 
thoughts and actions of mortals, aught that I may greet 
with joy when I render up to my Sovereign the account of 
the talents intrusted to my keeping ? Oh ! say what tale 
hast thou told of me ? Wilt thou, merciless one, bear with 
thee every unholy thought, every unworthy motive, every 



THE DEPARTING YEAR. 91 

thoughtless word, every sinful action, to terrify my disem- 
bodied spirit, when it shall wing its way to that dread tri- 
bunal ? Mortal, murmur not, that I am thus relentless. I 
am the messenger of heaven, sent to thee in mercy. On 
the scroll I bear, thou wast free to inscribe characters of 
good and evil. I have no license from my King, to efface 
ought that thou, as a moral agent, hast written. It will 
stand indelible, as the decrees of the Eternal. Oh faithless 
memory, why have I not more frequently been warned of 
this solemn truth ! Oh that I could stay thy flight, thou 
fleeting messenger, if perchance I might by tears of peni- 
tence efface w T hat I have thoughtlessly inscribed ! Child of 
earth, my visit is ended, my embassy accomplished ! Dost 
thou fear to meet me in judgment ? What then will 
be thy reckoning with all my predecessors ? Dost thou 
fancy because their records have been forgotten by thee, 
that the wave of oblivion has passed over them ? I tell 
thee, no. They are still as legible by the light of eternity, 
as when first impressed by thy hand. They are open to 
the piercing glance of the Almighty, even thy secret sins in 
the light of his countenance. 

" Oh ! will the rocks and mountains in that day refuse my 
invocation of despair ? Cease, sinful one, the precious words 
are still before thee, * The blood of Christ cleanseth from all 
sins.' If thou dost sincerely repent of thy past errors, and 
fully resolve, in the strength of God, to live a more holy life 
in future, that blood will be the oblivion wave to wash away 
past transgressions. Go in reliance upon Divine mercy ; 
beware of staining with guilt the spotless page about to be 
presented to thee ; — remember that every word is to stand 
as a witness for or against thee, and it may perchance be 
the last record thou will be permitted to keep. Oh ! keep 
it with watchfulness and prayer ; and be sure you write 
what you shall read with joy. Adieu." 



92 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

So closes the year 1842. This last extract from 
the Journal speaks of uncompromising self-examina- 
tion, — of the deeply penitential, — of faith in the 
efficacy of that blood " that cleanses from all sin." 
The heart's history is ever the true history. The 
inner life is ever the true life. From the " troubled 
fountain" of thought and feeling, it is admitted, 
spring the actions which constitute the outer life ; 
but these are so influenced by compelling circum- 
stances, by persons and things foreign to themselves, 
that the action is modified, and often bereaved of its 
individuality, of feature and character. It is not 
what we do, but what the heart approves, and would 
gladly accomplish, that makes our true history, and 
constitutes our character in the sight of God. 



CHAPTER VII. 

PROSPECTIVE BEREAVEMENT — DEATH OF HER MOTHER — 

LETTER TO HER SISTER JOURNAL — BIRTH-DAY — VISIT 

HOME — LETTERS WRITTEN FROM HOME — RETURN TO GER- 

MANTOWN BOOKS READ — OPINIONS OFFERED ADDRESS 

TO PUPILS ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW YEAR. 

The year 1843 opens as closes the preceding, 
deeply shadowed by the prospective bereavement. 
The cherished mother lives. But while hope would 
greatly lengthen the space of life, a fatal, yet flatter- 
ing disease already possesses the citadel. As the 
ungenial season passed on, this truth became more 
and more certain. The fearful crisis, indeed, is dis- 
tant but a few weeks. 

[The Journal.] 
" February 5, 1843. — Sabbath eve. Calm and beautiful 
without. Would that my heart were as pure and spotless 
as the heaven above me ! This day the blessed privilege 
has been again permitted of commemorating my Saviour's 
dying love. True, I have knelt at the altar, and received 
the sacred elements, but alas ! my heart seemed cold and 
unfeeling. How gladly would I have more feeling, — more 
of deep penitence for my numberless transgressions, — a 
more earnest desire for greater holiness. Oh ! do I not de- 
sire to lead a life consistent with my Christian profession ? 
Most certainly I do. Why do I not ? Alas ! ' I resolve 



94 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

and re-resolve, yet live the same.' I fear I have too much 
devotion for this sinful world. It is like a leaden weight 
upon my soul, preventing its soaring upward to God, and 
finding its happiness in things that are not of earth. But 
why I should love its vanities, I know not. I have found in 
them no solid satisfaction. Why I should desire its honor 
or applause, is not because I am unconvinced that they are 
utterly vain, and incapable of filling the void within the 
heart. Oh ! I fear it is because the love of God has so lit- 
tle place in my affections, that they thus cling to earth. But 
the strong chains that bind me to this fleeting world are fast 
being broken. She whom I love more than all besides, — 
she who gave me being, — to whose faithful breast my 
childhood clung so fondly, so trustingly, — my counsellor in 
difficulty, — my solace in sorrow, — my gentle and unwea- 
ried nurse in sickness, — ever my kindest friend, is now on 
her dying bed, about to be separated from all earthly 
things." 

One month later from the Journal: — 

"April 5. — She is gone. The heart-rending intelligence 
has reached me this morning, that March 28th, her pure 
spirit took its flight from a life of care, and anxiety, and 
suffering. She is at length released. She has exchanged a 
world of sorrow for an eternity of bliss, for the society of 
saints and angels. Why should I mourn? But oh ! the fear- 
ful struggle it cost, to relinquish her even for a home in the 
bosom of God, — that I am never more to look upon that 
countenance, that my heart has enshrined in its inmost 
depths, — to behold that form that was my idol, — to hear 
that voice that was music to my ear. Never, no never, to 
greet her more until the resurrection morn." 

From a most touching delineation of the deepest 
grief we have given this brief extract only from the 



DEATH OF HER MOTHER. 95 

Journal ; much is there written upon the subject of 
the most painful bereavement that can be experi- 
enced in this world, — a bereavement that was ever 
present to the heart of our friend even till the sig- 
nal came for reunion in the home of the blest. We 
give it unaccompanied with comment. The same 
silence and sympathy filling the heart as when we 
witnessed the excessive sorrow of the day this ex- 
tract commemorates, begging leave only to add a 
few lines from a letter to her sister bearing the same 
date. 

"Germantown, April 6, 1843. 
* My dear Sister, — This morning the Jong-dreaded 
epistle reached me, containing — Oh, what intelligence ! I 
feared to break the seal. Yet I read it, and oh, the agony 
of that hour, — the fearful struggle within, — the anguish, 
— the despair ! I had endeavored to prepare my mind for 
the event, to feel resigned to the will of God, and thought 
I could bear it calmly ; but alas ! I was deceived. I felt 
that I could not give up the fond hope to which I had 
clung with so much tenacity, — of seeing once more my 
idolized mother. I could not submit to the heart-rending 
thought that she whom I loved with so much devotion was 
taken from me for ever. Oh ! I could not submit. But 
now this evening I am calm, and hope I can say from the 
heart, ' The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, 
blessed be the name of the Lord.' I have no reason to 
mourn for our mother. I feel she is released from a world 
of sorrow and pain, — that she is now a pure spirit in the 
mansions of the blest, — that our loss has been her unspeak- 
able gain. To know that she was ready and willing to go, 
was to me heavenly consolation. Oh ! for her I weep not, 
but for those she has left behind. . . . 



96 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

" Our school is suspended for a week. I have met to-day 
with many testimonials of sympathy. Our day-scholars 
came as usual, — heard the intelligence, — wept much and 
left, without even inquiring whether there would be school. 
There has been the stillness of death in our habitation. 
I have seen only my kind and dear friend. Our young 
ladies have occupied an adjoining room, yet I have not 
heard the slightest sound. Several have called to inquire 
for me, and express their sympathy and sorrow. 

" Your sister in love, in sympathy, and sorrow, 

" J. A. Parker." 

For the space of a month from the last date the 
Journal is silent. The bereaved and stricken heart 
sought for consolation where it was alone found, in 
the exercise of a holy trust in God, a strong faith in 
his gracious promises. Calmness prevailed day by 
day. Although the calamity was great, it was re- 
garded as a dispensation of the Most High recalling 
his best gift, in wisdom that could not err. In the 
manifestation of a true Christian faith, each word 
and act spoke the heart's resignation, — Thy will, 
O God, not mine, be done. " Though He slay me, 
yet will I trust in Him." 

The next record made in the Journal bears the 
date of 

"April 28. — My birth-day. How the years of life have 
fled ! Will as many more as have passed dawn upon me ? 
Oh ! my Father in heaven only knows. 

" I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within." 



RETROSPECTION — BEREAVEMENT — HOPE. 97 

How many are the sins of the past year ; the violation of 
God's holy commands ! How much ingratitude ! How 
much forgetfulness of Him who has crowned my years with 
his goodness and mercy ! How could I meet in judgment 
this multitude of transgressions had there been no fountain 
opened to cleanse the guilt-stained soul ! But I would ever 
bless my God for the priceless gift of his dear Son. I trust 
through his blood my sins are all forgiven, I hope in that 
mercy that is so free, so rich. But another year has fled.. 
Is my heart better than when it dawned upon me ? Have 
I grown in grace ? and am I nearer heaven in purity andi 
holiness ? Alas ! my advances in Christian character have 
been slow indeed. True, I have been kept from the com- 
mission of great sins, yet how little have I done for God. 
and my fellow-beings. But my Heavenly Father has used 
with me almost the only means that could wean my affec- 
tions from a world on which they have been placed, and 
prepare me for a better. He has sent upon me, during this 
year, deep affliction. He has wounded my heart in its most 
tender part. He has removed my dearest earthly friend^ 
my mother, to the land of spirits. He has shown me the- 
vanity of all things earthly, — the necessity of having myr 
hopes anchored upon that rock, where all is unchanged by 
the fluctuations of time. I feel that I have been chastened 1 
for my good, and that even in wrath God has remembered 
mercy. What comfort and consolation has he not sent 
me in my affliction ! He has not left me in despair. Oh r 
no ! he has taken from me the friend of my heart, but 
he has received her to heaven. He has severed the strong- 
est tie that bound me here, but he has strengthened those- 
that bind me to the land of the blessed. He has left me in 
this cold world, but not comfortless. How many precious 
promises does his word contain for the children of the 
righteous, — for those who have been consecrated to him y 
9 



98 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

commended in strong faith to his guardian care and protec- 
tion, — for those who put their trust and confidence in his 
mercy. He has spared me many kind friends, many unde- 
served blessings. How good is God, how kind even in his 
chastenings. The sorrows he has caused me to feel have 
been indeed the cords of his love, to bring me back to the 
God from whom I have wandered. They have led me to 
self-examination and made me fervent in prayer. Oh may 
they so affect my heart, as to make it unnecessary for more 
poignant afflictions to be sent to teach me the way in which 
I should walk ! I would consecrate this year to him who is 
the God of my life, and whether I shall be brought to be- 
hold its close, or, ere that time, to bid farewell to earth and 
its illusions, I would have no anxiety to know. My trust 
is in an Almighty Friend. I leave myself and all my con- 
cerns, my hope and fears, wholly with him. I feel that 
the arms of his love will still be around me, — that his 
almighty wings will be my shelter and defence. 

" most merciful Father, who hast brought me to behold 
the commencement of another year, who hast been patient 
and longsuffering, notwithstanding my numerous and great 
provocations, wilt Thou grant thy blessing upon this year. 
May it be spent in thy service and to thy glory. May its 
every day find me advancing in holiness and in preparation 
for heaven. May the duties of the station in which Thou 
shalt place me be faithfully performed, whatever that station 
may be. May my efforts for doing good be untiring, and 
success attend them. Oh give me prosperity and happi- 
ness if it be thy holy will ! — above all, give me a contented 
mind, perfect submission and acquiescence to thy holy will, 
and unbounded trust and confidence in Thee. O Lord, hear 
this prayer and answer it for Christ, my Eedeemer's sake, 
to whom with Thee, and. the Holy Spirit, be everlasting, 
praises. Amen." 



HOME BEREAVEMENT — SADNESS. 99 

Correspondence resumed, as the Journal is silent 
for some time. 

"Home, August 5, 1843. 

" My very dear Friend, — In my own quiet chamber I 
have seated myself to write you once more. From my 
window I behold a more lovely prospect than my eyes have 
looked upon for months. But within, how mournfully sad 
and desolate. Alas, my friend, home is to me no longer a 
home! The chain is broken, the brightest link is gone. 
The voice that would have welcomed back the wanderer, 
and oh, so tenderly, is hushed in death. The eyes that 
would have beamed upon her in eloquent fondness are 
closed forever. I wander through these apartments, feeling 
a void within my heart, whereunto none reply. I ask 
where is she ? and echo answers, where ? I go to her 
grave, where they tell me her dust reposes, and pour my 
burning tears of anguish upon the flower-gemmed sod that 
covers all that was mortal of my now sainted mother. Yet 
I have no realizing sense that that grave contains all I once 
so loved and revered. Ah no, it cannot be. Has she not 
gone away, — perchance on a journey, and will she not re- 
turn? Does she know I am at home? why does she 
linger? Certainly she was not thus accustomed to do. 
What meaneth it ? Affection ever maketh such inquiries. 
But alas ! stern reason tells me in reply she has gone 
on that journey from whence no traveller returns. I shall 
see her no more until the last trump shall sound, and the 
dead shall rise and stand in judgment. Ah, then I turn 
away sorrowful and sick at heart, and sigh for the quiet and 
rest of the grave. 

" My dearest friend, — Heaven grant that it may be long 
ere you shall know by sad experience so heartrending an 
affliction — so irreparable a loss. Life is heir to but one 



100 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

such sorrow. Late may you feel its iron hand upon your 
heart. 

" Mournful as is my visit home, it is not unmixed with joy. 
I find my dear father, brothers, and sister, in usual health, 
happy to see me once more, — studious of my comfort and 
pleasure, devoted to me by ties that absence is powerless to 
break. Although I have been afflicted, I am still greatly 
blessed. How much is still spared to me, that my heart 
should remember with joy and gratitude. 

******* 
" Believe me ever, your most devoted friend, 

" Julia." 

A few days later to the same. 

" Claremont, N. H., August 17, 1843. 

" My dear E., — I have omitted writing to you until to- 
day, not that there is any thing I enjoy more, but because 
no desirable opportunity has offered itself before. 

" Since I have been here I have been very busy, and at 
the same time very idle. This is somewhat paradoxical, 
but I leave it to you to reconcile the statement. Never has 
time hung so heavily as during these few days I have been 
here. When at home I occupy myself much of the time 
with little domestic matters, which serve to divert my mind 
from the loneliness and sorrow it feels, as well as compen- 
sate in some degree for the active life I lead when in 

G . My little cousin here, is so very domestic. She 

is only with me in the afternoon, and the days do really 
seem long ; sometimes in the most pleasant company, 
tedious. When I am at home I am often sick at heart, 
and feel that the loneliness that comes over me, is at times 
almost insupportable. When I am away, I long to be 
again where my dear mother has been. Life seems to me 



WELCOME LETTER RETURN. 101 

so dark. The past has its painful regrets ; the future, so 
full of doubt and uncertainty. I am more happy with you, 
than with any one else. Yet do not suppose that there is 
no enjoyment here ; for my friends are not wanting in their 
kind endeavors to promote my pleasure ; but there is a 
constant sadness at my heart, that even their kindest atten- 
tions fail to dispel. 

" I am much obliged for your letter written by the way ; 
it was altogether unexpected, but not the less welcome. I 
am happy that you do not forget me even in these waiting 
hours. I would not be forgotten by you, my friend, above 
all others. I value beyond all price your affection, and 
would that I as fully merited it. I think, with pleasure, of 
the time we shall be again together. Are we not both 
happier then, than we could be under any other circum- 
stances ? 

* Ever yours, Julia." 

[The Journal.] 

" October 10. — Returned once more to the scene of my 
chosen labors, I turn to my long-neglected Journal. Few 
spirit-stirring events have I to record, therefore my Journal 
must be a record of the train of thought, rather than inci- 
dent. 

" Have been reading in the Museum a criticism on 
' Woodworth's Greece.' The immortality of Athens, says 
this beautiful writer, does not consist in the material of 
which her noble works of art are composed, and which still 
remain to show us what she has been, but in their spirit. 
The heart is there, but the spirit is everywhere. In this 
we behold, we feel the genius of her sons. He speaks of 
the locality of Athens and Sparta, as having much influence 
in giving to each its peculiar characteristics. 

" Sparta, in a valley remote from the sea, surrounded by 
9* 



102 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

mountains, enjoyed a situation favorable for the cultivation 
of the active and stirring qualities of character, particularly 
self-reliance and love of liberty. While Athens, on the 
sea-coast, having constant communication with other people, 
excelled in refinement all the cities of Greece, and became 
the mother of the refined and elegant arts ; at the same 
time more effeminate in character, and less able to retain 
iher independence. But shall not her glory live forever? 
Has not art, as well as nature, a principle of immortality ? " 

We come to the close of the year that brought the 
first deep grief to the heart, that cast its shadow over 
all the after-life of our friend. Of this year we 
would add no further memorial than what she has 
left. We give her own reflections as offered on its 
departure, and the advent of 1844 to the pupils of 
the school, — the Journal being silent. 

" We have heard the knell of the departed year, 1843, 
with its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows ! It has ac- 
complished its embassy to earth, and taken its flight forever ! 
And have we bade it adieu, as a casual acquaintance, whom 
we are to meet no more ? Has it fled to the shadowy land 
of the past, bearing with it the scroll on which we, as moral 
agents, have transcribed no thoughts, words, and actions, 
with the wish to stay its flight ? Has faithful memory re- 
viewed with scrutinizing eye each line of that annual page, 
on which we daily and hourly have written and sealed it, to 
be borne to that fearful depositary of records of other years, 
with no sigh of regret, no tear of sorrow, that so much has 
been thoughtlessly written, with no deep, earnest wish for the 
power to efface those indelible characters, that we fain 
would have lost in the wave of oblivion? Have we re- 



MI SIMPROVEMENT — DESIRE FOR TRTTH. 103 

membered that the misimprovement of every talent in- 
trusted to our keeping is there registered? every secret 
thought — every broken resolution — every unworthy mo- 
tive — every misspent moment — every thoughtless word 
and improper action, in characters that the light of eternity 
will render fearfully legible ? 

u On the other hand, equally indelible is the transcript of 
every virtuous emotion of the soul, — every triumph of duty 
over inclination, — every generous wish for moral improve- 
ment, — every disinterested desire for truth, — every effort 
to enkindle in a pure and spiritual flame the spark of the 
Divinity within us, — every holy aspiration after all that 
can exalt and ennoble humanity, — every tear for others' 
woe, — every self-sacrifice for others' good, — every sincere 
prayer for direction and guidance, and humble reliance 
upon the Father of Lights. What has been the record 
indeed of each one of us, that this departed messenger has 
borne to the archives of eternity, is known alone to that 
Being, whose piercing glance can survey the most secret 
recesses of the soul. Oh let us reflect on the year that has 
now gone ! May we review its scenes and events with seri- 
ousness and solemnity. For the many short-comings in 
duty, let us be sincerely sorrowful. Remember, it was the 
tear of penitence that had potency to unbar the gates of 
paradise ; and let it bedew the eye, and gem the cheek of 
each one of you, till it gain for you an entrance into the ark 
of heavenly mercy. Be grateful for the blessings a benefi- 
cent hand has showered upon you, — for life and health and 
means of happiness so richly bestowed, — for minds capable 
of those finer emotions of beauty and sublimity, excited by 
the wonders of His hand, — for the enjoyments of social 
intercourse, and the still more precious ones of private friend- 
ship. Remember, and acknowledge Him, who thus pro- 
longs your thread of life, w T hose wings of love have enfolded 



104 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

you in the hour of temptation and danger, whose unslumber- 
ing eye has followed your every step, and safely guided you 
to the threshold of a new year. Oh, enter not upon it with 
thoughtless and inconsiderate hearts ! 1844 has come to 
you as a minister of mercy, presenting to you a fair and 
spotless page, on which you must leave the further impress 
of your lives. Beware how you write thereon those char- 
acters that you are to review with emotions of purest joy or 
most poignant sorrow. Will you not commence this year, 
feeling that it is indeed a fearful thing to live, and be 
accountable for every thought we cherish, every word we 
utter, and for the character of the influence exerted, ar- 
dently desiring, and with divine assistance resolving, to so 
spend it that its review may be one of satisfaction ? Will 
you not studiously endeavor to avoid the errors of former 
years, to conquer a love of ease and self-indulgence, and 
every injurious habit that may obstruct your onward prog- 
ress in forming an acquaintance with your own* hearts, and 
correcting all you find unworthy rational beings, to cultivate 
and cherish those qualities that your conscience will approve, 
and others esteem and love ? Will you not resolve that no 
known duty shall be omitted, no opportunity for improve- 
ment misapplied ? If we could thus feel that you would be 
true to yourselves, to your own best interests, with what 
delight should we recommence our labors for your advance- 
ment, and assist you in exploring the rich and inexhaustless 
mines of knowledge. 

u But, my dear friends, forget not that all resolutions 
formed in your own strength, will be powerless to withstand 
temptation. Like the rose in its pride of beauty, whose 
leaves lie scattered by the northern blast, a beautiful wreck, 
so will your self-supported purposes be destroyed. 

" Go in the strength of God, rely on his aid and assist- 
ance, and the blood of his Son will be the oblivion wave 



RESOLUTIONS — THE NEW YEAR. 105 

to wash away your past transgressions and fit you for use- 
fulness and happiness in this uncertain world, and prepare 
you for that noble scene of things where, the shackles of 
mortality removed, the soul will know no limit to its ex- 
pansion and capability for knowledge and virtue. That this 
year may be to each one a thrice happy year ; that each 
day may bring you more enjoyments, and fresh desires for 
excellence; that its close may fall peacefully around you, 
bringing no regret for the past, rich in pleasing reminis- 
cences, and fraught with bright anticipations for the future, 
is the sincere wish and prayer of your teacher and friend." 



CHAPTER VIII. 

REMOVAL TO PHILADELPHIA LETTER TO HER BROTHER 

LETTER TO HER SISTER LETTERS TO MISS B , OF 

WOODSTOCK, VT. 

In the absence of any records in the Journal for 
the year 1844, we turn again to the correspondence 
of our friend for the most desirable materials for 
continuing this biographical sketch. The selections 
for this year are mostly from letters addressed to her 
own immediate family. The institution with which 
Miss Parker was connected, was at this time re- 
moved from Germantown to Philadelphia. 

The following was addressed to her younger 
brother : — 

"Philadelphia, February 12, 1844. 

" My dear Brother, — I think of you as among stran- 
gers and in a strange land, far away from those who feel a 
particular interest in your welfare, sustaining the duties of 
an arduous profession. You have commenced your conflict 
with a harsh and unfeeling world, — meeting, wherever you 
turn, the deep selfishness of the human heart. But, my 
dear brother, be strong in yourself and the assistance of 
God. Be resolved, if adverse circumstances surround you, 



GREATNESS OF SOUL DIFFICULTIES. 107 

to conquer, and not be conquered. Between a strong mind 
and weak one, there is this difference, — one is the crea- 
ture, the slave of adverse circumstances ; the other the 
master, making them subserve his own wishes. 

" True greatness of soul is brought out by difficulties ; 
and although the lesson is a severe one, we never know of 
what we are capable, or indeed what we are, until we are 
taught by adversity. Oh ! my trust is strong, that God will 
never forsake those whom our departed, sainted mother 
committed so fervently on her dying bed to his Fatherly 
protection. The seed of the righteous is blessed. 

"I feel even now, in the mansions of bliss, she may know 
our joys and sorrows, and still commend us to the peculiar 
care of the one Friend ' that sticketh closer than a brother.' 
Do you never feel it a privilege to be the son of such a 
mother? to feel that she who loved you so tenderly, so 
devotedly, trusted in God, and gave you into his hands, to 

be kept ' as the apple of his eye ? ' My dear H , what 

a friend we have lost ! I feel each day more and more the 
loss. 

' Time but the impression stronger makes 
As streams their channels deeper wear.' 

Let us live so as to meet her in heaven. Do not ex- 
pect too much from this world. Let your desires be mod- 
erate, and your disappointments will be less. To learn 
perfect acquiescence to the will of an overruling providence 
is the true key to wisdom and happiness. 

The following to her sister, on the anniversary of 
her mother's death : — 

"Philadelphia, March 28, 1844. 

" My dear Sister, — You will perceive by the date of 
my letter, that it is written on the anniversary of our 



108 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

mother's death. Think I could allow this day to pass as 
other days ? Would it be right to fill it up with worldly 
cares, and the e very-day agitations of busy life ? Oh, no ! 
For months I have looked forward to its approach, and re- 
solved to consecrate it wholly and entirely to the melan- 
choly recollections of the past, and the anticipations of a 
world where sorrow and partings are unknown. I am in 
my quiet chamber alone. I have seen but one counte- 
nance, save that of my friend and the servant who brought 
me a cup of coffee. I could not go into the school-room to- 
day or attend to any of my regular duties. I could not 
wear the smile of indifference, while my heart was breaking. 
I felt that the wounds of my heart bled afresh, from the 
arrows of recollection, and I have sought the silence and 
solitude of my room to weep here. The day harmonizes 
with my feelings, — still and cloudy. The skies bear a 
look like the resignation of grief. May this day as often as 
it shall return to me, ever come thus ! The bright sun, with 
his festival rays, belongs not to the children of sorrow. The 
heart, like antiquity, hath its ruins. No glaring light should 
unveil their secrets. The holier and softer beams of night 
are alone in harmony with decay and sorrow. 

" I have been reading this morning your letter, written in 
the season of affliction. It is preserved among my treasures. 
I have read it many times, and as often as it has met my 
eye, it has made me more deeply feel our unspeakable loss. 
What a world of suffering were this, if the soul could not cast 
the anchor of her shattered hopes beneath the calm waters 
of a future life ! Sorrow meets us everywhere ; its flaming 
sword bars every approach to perfect bliss. Is there not a 
mansion in the skies to which our sainted mother will wel- 
come us, when the pilgrimage of life is past ? Shall we not 
be a reunited family, to part no more forever ? Oh that we 
each one might live in such a manner, as to hope constantly 



GOSPEL LIFE. 109 

to meet her in heaven. But when I remember how much 
the gospel requires, what purity of heart, what self-denial, 
what love to God and man, what humility, patience, and 
meekness, I dare not hope. What but the blood of Christ 
can save us from despair? 

" But can it have been a year since the solemn event de- 
scribed in that letter transpired ? Why, it seems but yester- 
day. Methinks I have just received the fearful intelligence. 
It came to me to-day with a vividness, as if it had been until 
now unknown. I try to realize that I have been in the de- 
serted mansion, have seen the forsaken hearth, and stood, yea 
knelt, by the silent grave. But ah ! I cannot, the recollec- 
tion fleets through my mind like a wandering dream ; and I 
fancy her sleeping dust still lies, as you describe it, in the 
parlor, waiting to be conveyed to the narrow house ; and I 
long for the wings of a dove, that I may but look upon that 
face, ere the grave closes upon it — that I may but touch 
those lips that can never speak to me more. 

I can realize the tempest that has passed over my spirit r 
only by what it has left behind. Life is, indeed, a vapor, a 
shadow, a dream. What matter where we spend it, if we 
do but make it the seed time for eternity ? 

The next selection offered, is an extract from a 
letter addressed to her elder brother, bearing the date 
of July 3, 1844: — 

"My dear Brother, — It was with great pleasure 
that I received your letter, and if the blessings of life are to 
be valued according to their scarcity, surely this was of no 
little worth. The sight of your handwriting never fails to 
bring joy to my heart, and perchance a tear to my eye. 
How deeply it is associated with the world of the past, with 
home, and the unbroken household band. It speaks not to 
10 



110 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

the outward ear ; but its still small voice falls harmoniously 
upon the inner spirit. It tells of a time when we lived with, 
and, perhaps, to some extent, for each other ; when there 
was a free interchange of thought and feeling, a communion 
of soul with soul, and heart with heart — mutual sympathy 
of sorrows and of hopes. Pleasant are these memories to 
the heart ; but the thought that this is to be no more, is a 
signal for a tear. We may, it is true, meet again, and 
again enjoy each other's society ; but the year has but one 
spring, human life but one youthful season of bright and 
unclouded anticipations. With the stern realities of life, 
comes the canker-worm of care. The objects to which dis- 
tance lent enchantment appear in their true light and just 
proportions, and stripped of all that made them beautiful 
and poetical. 

" I stood last night on the bank of a noble stream, and 
watched a fairy-like sail, that moved so quietly on its 
heaven-mirrored bosom, and I fancied that it might be a 
Cleopatra's barge ; so snowy was its canvas, so swan-like its 
motion. I felt that it must be bound for some blessed port, 
into which care had no passport, and the annoyances of life 
could find no entrance. I longed to find myself in it, and 
borne onward to this haven of rest. It approached me ; the 
allusion ceased; the charm was dispelled; it was but a 
dirty, miserable craft, filled with a crew of sun-burnt sailors, 
with their broad-brimmed hats, and with features as coarse as 
the woollen jackets they gloried in. What a blot was this 
upon my beautiful fancy sketch ! And how like it was to 
life. I have ever found it so. What I ardently desired, 
when attained, proved spiritless and full of disagreeables. 
I have learned to think with the poet that, — 

" Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end and way ; 

But to act that each to-morrow 

Find us further than to-day , ry 



A CHERISHED PUPIL — LETTER. Ill 

The letters that follow, closing the selections of 
1844 as thgse of 1845, were addressed to Miss 

B , of Woodstock, Vermont, — a most warmly 

cherished friend, — a pupil of this and the preceding 
year. The first speaks of her departure, and return 
home at the close of the school year of 1843-4. 
The vacation of this year, Miss Parker passed at 

the hospitable mansion of Mr. T , on the wild 

and picturesque banks of the Wissahickon, some 
twelve miles from Philadelphia, from which charm- 
ing locality the first of the series is written. 

" Chestnut Hill, July 23, 1844. 

"My dear N., — This morning your long expected letter 
reached me. With joy I opened and read. But my dear 
friend, let me speak of that first, which is nearest to the 
heart, — your return. And do you give no encouragement 
that we are to have you with us again? Must I relinquish 
the fondly cherished hope ? I had looked anxiously for 
your letter, hoping that it would tell of a time when we 
should meet again. Alas ! this separation of friends, how 
sad, how painful, to the fond and sensitive heart ! That was, 
indeed, a heavy hour that saw you all depart for our cher- 
ished father-land. You perhaps felt some shade of melan- 
choly stealing over you ; but your heart was full of hope 
and joy at the prospect of soon finding yourself in the 
holiest spot of all the earth — in the sanctuary of the soul's 
best affections — home ; of hearing again a mother's voice, 
a father's welcome, and the kind tones of the many friends 
of other days. But for me, where was any ray of comfort ? 
From my sadness I could not flee ; it followed me every- 
where. In the depths of my soul, I felt the full meaning of 
the word solitude. I could not accompany you to the boat, — 



112 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

I could not have borne the sight of its moving gaily from the 
shore, bearing from me those I so much lov.e, and they all 
unconscious of one ' breaking heart, left behind.' Not that 
it would have been a relief to my feelings, had I felt that I 
was homeward bound. Oh, no ! my star of hope was en- 
veloped in clouds; to go, or to stay, it mattered not; I 
could catch no glimpse of its cheering ray. And those 
desolate rooms, it seemed as if death had passed through 
them, — so lonely and so desolate they were. But in my 
sadness I had recourse to the only effectual remedy for 
such a malady — occupation. I regulated every drawer, 
closet, and desk, — brought order out of confusion, — light 
out of darkness. I made all necessary preparations for 
leaving; ordered every thing to remain in statu quo until 
next September ; and so far recovered my accustomed se- 
renity and cheerfulness as to feel myself again. Sunday 
morning found me in that soothing melancholy, in which I 
love sometimes to indulge. I was alone ; every thing 
around seemed so breathlessly still, so quiet, so peaceful, so 
in happy contrast with the exciting, care-troubled week 
that had just passed, that I could almost fancy my spirit had 
really and truly found what it had so often yearned for, — 
some green little isle in life's billowy ocean, where it could 
fold its weary pinions and find rest. . . . 

" On Monday I came to this hospitable ' home,' this sweet 
6 Vale of Avoca,' in ' whose bosom of shade ' I hold converse 
with peace and contentment. I am very happy here. The 
cares of the past, live only in the dim light of recollection. 
The quiet influences of the place banish care and anxiety 
from the present, and I leave my future with One who 
ordereth all things well. Kind friends have welcomed me, 
and I feel as if I had again found parents, brothers, and 
sisters. 

" Next to the home of my childhood, no spot seems 



NATURE THE FUTURE HOME. 113 

dearer. It is here so wildly beautiful. We live with 
Nature, and I feel she has ever sympathy for the sorrowing 
heart. I love to seek her solitudes, and hold with her that 
sweet communion that brings peace to the soul. I often 
wonder here, that the past could have seemed so beset with 
the stern and rugged. I review it now, and find it rich 
in many blessings. Surely there are some comforts in the 
midst of trials. After all, it is the trifles of life that so 
deeply affect our happiness or misery; and truly, as 
rational and immortal beings, we are bound to rise above 
them. Our enjoyment ought not to be intrusted to their 
keeping. How much needless anxiety, too, we indulge for 
a future that we can neither see or control. Yet does this 
anxiety trouble so much the springs of happiness. Oh 
that I were willing to go ' onward in faith, and leave the 
rest to heaven ! ' 

" My dear N — — , I was exceedingly sorry to find your 
letter written in so sad a strain. You assuredly ought 
never to be unhappy. How glad, how rejoiced I should be, 
to have you again with us, for you are dear, very dear. 
You have been so kind, so good, so affectionate, I could not 
have helped loving you if I would. Do not speak of our 
never meeting again. Let us rather hope for many happy 
days to come. Next summer I fondly hope to see my own 
New England. If our lives are spared, we may spend 
much of the summer together. The ' White Hills ' and 
' Niagara ' belong to next summer, — do not forget. But 
if you remain with your dear friends at home, I hope you 
will be very happy. Make yourself a blessing to those so 
dear. You have seen just enough of the world to make 
you desirous of another view. If you had seen more, if you 
knew more of its selfishness and heartlessness, you would 
welcome with gratitude your pleasant, retired, your own beau- 
tiful home. In the knowledge of the world, as in other kinds, 
10* 



114 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

c a little is a dangerous thing.' i Drink deep, or taste not.' 
But be assured there is not in all this falsely, fascinating 
world, but one place for the heart to dwell in, — that place 
lis home. 

Tlf 3jC r/fc '91? 7|f V& 7|P 

" Yours, truly and sincerely, 

"J. A. Parker." 

[To the Same.] 

" Philadelphia, October 18, 1844. 

"My dear Friend, — I take the earliest opportunity for 
-writing you, as in this I have been anticipated by Miss 

X , who has given you accurate intelligence of the 

little kingdom over which we bear sway ; so I only repeat 
what I have so often uttered before, that your place is not » 
;and cannot be filled by another than your individual self. 
Be assured you are very dear to me. I would gladly 
always have you near me. I still fondly trust you will 
spend some winters with us in future. At present, Provi- 
dence seems to point home, as your place of improvement 
and usefulness. I know you will endeavor to make yourself 
)happy there, and study to fulfil all your duties in such a 
^manner as God and your own conscience will approve. 

" Do not talk of shutting yourself up with your books 
;and retiring from the world, on which you can scarcely be 
said to have entered. Remember that you sustain the rela- 
tion of daughter, sister, friend, and member of the great 
human family. That in each of their relations, heavy re- 
sponsibilities are resting upon you. You will pardon me 
for intruding my counsel and advice ; but remember, you 
are a free agent, I venture to give un morceau. 

" This winter I would have you commence your lessons 
for becoming a good house-keeper. Every day I live, gives 



woman's true sphere. 115 

me a deeper sense of the importance of this kind of knowl- 
edge to a woman. There is no one acquirement I have 
made from books which I would not readily give in ex- 
change for a thorough practical acquaintance with domestic 
economy. I feel that home is a woman's true sphere, and 
that to be able to preside there with ease, grace, and 
propriety, is, or should be, the great end of her education, 
so far as the present life is concerned. If this be true, you 
can be in no school more profitable than your own well- 
ordered home. You can there learn by participation in 
propria persona, the most useful lessons for the management 
of a household. You must rise very early, and devote the 
morning hours to domestic employment ; be your mother's 
aid and ministering spirit ; feel a deep interest in all that in- 
terests her, and consider yourself responsible in some degree 
for the comfort and happiness of each member of your 
family. As I recall my own past life, I find much occasion 
for regret in these particulars. My time was almost entirely 
spent in reading and study ; I took upon myself no particu- 
lar part of the family cares, and thought my services in 
this department, because unasked, were not desired. I 
injured my health, and neglected duties which I might have 
known, thus making work for sad regret. Yet with all due 
attention to domestic duties, you will find sufficient leisure 
for intellectual improvement. 

" On matters literary, let me say I regret that you did not 
finish, while here, the translation of ' The French 'Revolu- 
tion,' as I consider it a very instructive work, and calculated 
to remove the false splendor and fascination which have 
hitherto unjustly surrounded the memory of Napoleon. 
You must take up an extensive course of historical reading, 
and become learned in the story of the past. I have a 
class in ancient history this term, which I think the most 
interesting one I ever had. It is composed of a number of 



116 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

our more advanced young ladies, and each recitation occu- 
pies one hour. In point of scholarship our pupils generally 
of this year, manifest considerable superiority. Another 
winter, providence permitting, we shall expect you to be 
with us again. 

******* 
" I must close my letter m 9 amie, but not my kind and 
heartfelt remembrance of you. Let us hear from you very 
often, and believe me, 

" Ever your devoted friend, 

" J. A. Parker." 

[To the Same.] 

"Philadelphia, December 24, 1844. 

"My dearest and best, — A happy Christmas to you. 
I hope St. Nicholas is just in the act of letting himself down 
your chimney, loaded with beautiful gifts for you. I tried 
to have him take this letter, that you might find it among 
your treasures to-morrow morning, but the renegade would 
not wait for me ; so you will not have it for a Christmas 
present. But I do not regret this much ; for amid so many 
richer blessings as this kind saint will shower upon you, I 
fear it might remain unnoticed. But this is really Christ- 
mas eve; and how much I wish you could spend these 
holidays with us. We have closed the doors of our * uni- 
versity ' for one blessed week, which we mean to lay under 
contribution for our own enjoyment. 

" I have been promenading Chestnut street this afternoon. 
The shops are full of beautiful things. t But I did little else 
but moralize upon the exceeding transitory nature of all 
earthly things, and above all earthly things, the brevity of 
my individual purse. So I made a virtue of necessity, and 
practised admirable self-denial. If I had a few more such 
virtues I think I might hope for canonization 



GIFTS BEAUTIFUL SCENE. 117 

" It would be to me a source of bliss to show my friends 
how ardently I love them, by external and visible tokens of 
benefits conferred. In the absence of these, a heart warm 
and sincere is all their own. "Would you prize this gift ? if 
so, it is yours. I do indeed both love you warmly, and feel 
your absence deeply. I am so often reminded of you, by 
the void your absence occasions, as well as by the objects 
you were accustomed to admire. 

" It is a glorious night, and I have been looking out upon 
the beautiful square from the window, where you were 
accustomed to sit. I thought of you far away in your own 
mountain land. The trees you loved are despoiled of their 
leafy honors ; but the grass has not yet lost its greenness, 
and bathed in the bright light of a full moon, it is perhaps 
not less lovely than when you bade it adieu. But you are 
so far away ! and it must take days to catch the sound of the 
still voice with which I am now speaking to you. But if 
you were by my side, we w r ould sit long by this pleasant 
window, offering to happiness a thousand peace-offerings. 
******* 
" Yours, ever and truly, 

" J. A. Parker." 

So closes the gathered remembrances of another 
year. A year passed in the quiet, unobtrusive per- 
formance of duty, — a year consecrated to stern self- 
discipline and warm heartfelt sacrifice for the good 
of others, — a year of unceasing activity and useful- 
ness. 



CHAPTER IX. 

LETTERS TO MISS B CONTINUED — KIND INQUIRIES — 

LECTURES OF MR. GLIDDON — ESSAY ON THE CLOSE OF 
1845. 

[Continuation of the Correspondence with Miss B .] 

"Philadelphia, April, 1845. 

" My own dear N., — I beg you will forgive me for 
having so long delayed to answer your welcome letter. 

T T ♦ * T T 5|t 

" So much for explanation of apparent remissness in duty. 
But although I should never write you again, you must not 
imagine, my dear, that you are the less warmly remembered. 
Oh, no. The image in the heart fades not away. In the 
room, where you used to sit, many things have voices to 
speak of you. But never do I gaze upon the trees you so 
much loved, without associating them with your memory. 
The lovely spring is again unfolding her wealth of beauty, 
to gladden and rejoice the heart. 

" My dear friend, shall we not meet again, ere another 
season like this comes round ? I sincerely trust it may be 
so ; but whether it will be in your own pleasant home, or in 
a more sunny land, I know not now 

" But how have you spent the cold, cold northern winter? 
Plenty of books, I suppose, a bright fireside and social 



WINTER PASSING YEAR. 119 

friends have made it pass away with much zest and improve- 
ment. It has, on the whole, passed pleasantly with me, al- 
though I cannot feel that I am much wiser and better than 
when it began. It is sad to look back upon a season gone, 
— fled as a dream, and search in vain for some treasures 
left behind. Oh, what vanity is life! It is all shadow 
without substance; and were it not that its consequences 
take hold on eternity, it would be too worthless for a 
rational thought. Since time is nothing, let us live in refer- 
ence to that future, — that is the all in all. 

" We have had, in the city, an unusual number of lectures, 
concerts, and all sorts of amusement. With the exception 
of several lectures which I have attended, I have found my 
enjoyment at home. Mr. Gliddon has been giving a very 
successful series of lectures upon Ancient Egypt, on the 
darkness and mysteries of which he has thrown much light. 
As for news of particular interest, I have not much, but 
such as I have, give I unto thee. 

u Your sincere friend, 

"J. A. Parker." 

[ Written at the close of 1845.] 
"THE PASSING YEAR. 

" Marked ye the passing year ? When the voice of 
Spring proclaimed the resurrection of all bright and glori- 
ous things that earth had power to restore, saw ye how 
nature started to life, and put on her beautiful garments, 
majestic in her loveliness, as a queen dispensing light and 
joy wherever she swayed her sceptre ? Then the delicately 
pencilled blossoms, beautiful as if dropped by an angel's 
hand, sprung like magic from the soft green sward, and 
yielded their odors to the gently wooing gales, while the 



120 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

rich melodies of the woods, and the wild minstrelsy of the 
unfettered streamlets, broke upon the glad ear like a full 
pean to creation's Lord ! Summer came, and this bloom of 
the youthful year ripened into a maturity of loveliness ; and 
the hues that earth had purloined from the rainbow's treas- 
ury, grew more deep in tint, more gorgeous in dye. Yea, 
so affluent was earth in her beauty, who would have dreamed 
it was not for aye? But the hectic flush appeared, the 
presage of dissolution ! As ye have seen the rose deepen, 
and the eye become more lustrous, while disease was at 
work upon the citadel of life, so the forest leaves gleamed 
forth their unearthly brilliancy for a season, then silently 
fell to gladden our hearts no more. The waving grain 
yielded also to the reaper's hand, and the rich fruits of 
autumn disappeared before the frost-breath of Winter. 
Look abroad and behold now how all hath departed ! Not 
a leaf or a flower remaineth, a beautiful lingerer amid na- 
ture's desolation, to tell that all has not been a dream, 8 the 
baseless fabric of a vision, that has left not a wreck behind ! * 
Fearful, fearful change ! Would thou wert known alone in 
the dominion of nature ; that the tree and the flower were 
the only things bright and fair that sicken and fade at com- 
ing ! Precious as are these to the eye of taste and the 
heart of sensibility, willingly would we yield them, as a rich 
tribute to thee, the universal conqueror, wouldst thou but 
pass by our household and our hearths. But, alas ! here, 
too, must thy sceptre be acknowledged, thy dread suprem- 
acy felt ! Into how many a happy home, how many a tem- 
ple consecrated to the holiest affections of our nature, over 
which ' Peace and Love joined their spread wings as o'er 
devotion's shrine,' sheltering a household band, where par- 
ental joy, filial devotion, and domestic bliss were twined into 
one wreath of happiness, hath the spoiler entered during the 
departed year ! And when its advent was heralded, how 



THE PASSING YEAR. 121 

merrily were exchanged in the joyous circle the heart-warm 
wishes of mutual happiness ; while bright hopes seemed 
to hover around, like invisible angels, promising a year of 
bliss, destined to know no reality ! No day of the year now 
fled hath the mighty hunter rested from his toil ; no victim 
marked for his prey hath been able to beguile him from his 
purpose, or escape his unerring dart ! The infant, in the 
sinlessness of its early being ; the maiden, with her cheek of 
bloom and eye of light ; manhood, with its lofty brow and 
vigorous step ; old age, with its time-frosted locks and trem- 
bling form, — all have yielded to the unalterable decree of 
' dust to dust.' How many hopes, beautiful in the dawning 
year as the garniture of spring, now find their sad emblems 
amid the desolateness of winter! How many a 'silver 
cord ' of love hath been loosed ; how many a ' golden bowl ' 
of happiness broken at the fountain ! What blights and dis- 
appointments have fallen upon many a human heart, like 
frost upon the blooming but fragile flowers ! How many a 
sweet vision of fancy hath melted away, like i fairy frost- 
work/ leaving in its place the dull, cold realities of this 
every-day world ! Alas ! each swift- winged moment hath 
had its dark thread to weave into some human destiny, and 
a few brief months have sufficed to change the whole scene 
of things ! And now the year hath folded around him his 
mantle of the past, and gone to join the days that were. 
Marked ye his passing admonitions ? Pondered ye well 
his parting oracles, sacred and solemn as the dying message 
of a friend^ ' that all on earth is shadow ; ' that ' as a leaf 
we fade/ as ' a flower we pass away ; ' that as the rolling 
seasons fill up the varied year, so a few fleeting days com- 
plete the cycle of human life, and the curtain falls to rise no 
more in time. Sage counsellor was he, the departed year ! 
Mark well his teachings, and write them on the tablet of 
11 



122 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

thine heart; so shalt thou stand like a rock, even in the 
midst of earthly vicissitude, and in the strength of Him 
who conquered death, thou shalt defy his power 

* To quench thine immortality, 
Or shake thy trust in GodV " 



CHAPTER X. 

letter to miss b«— . — letter home — winter — con- 
stant OCCUPATION — » VISIT HOME — LETTER TO MISS 

M . — LETTER TO MISS B— — -. — IMPAIRED HEALTH — 

REMOVAL TO A WARMER CLIMATE. 

"Philadelphia, January 10, 1846. 
" My dear N., — There are two antagonistic principles 
in my heart warring against each other, and these both re- 
late to you. I am quite puzzled to know which to humor 
in this letter. Whether I should pour out the warm, kindly 
feelings that lie at the bottom of my heart, and that plead so 
eloquently for you, or give place to the indignation that 
forms the stratum above them. But perhaps I may as well 
remove the superincumbent weight first, and let the clouds 
come before the sunshine. Well, then, let me tell you, I 
was sorely vexed when I learned from your last letter that 
you had spent two months in Boston, without coming to 
Philadelphia. How could you do such a thing, or rather 
leave such a thing undone ? I know how difficult it is to 
get started from that fixed point of home, but when once 
under way, how could you think of stopping so far short of 
your duty ? Oh ! I was disappointed enough, but it is of no 
use to tell you now, as your heart is probably still more 
hardened. But when I recall the past, I feel that I must 
pass over this seeming neglect of duty. I can only allow 
myself to remember your kindness, affection, and ever hon- 



124 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

orable course, while you were here. My dear, I can never 
cease to love you for what you have been, and to remember 
you with the warmest gratitude. I think, however, if you 
were here now, you would enjoy a visit much, and certainly 
it would give us much pleasure. 

" May this be to you a new year of many blessings. 
Accept my tardily expressed wishes for your happiness. I 
do most ardently hope it may bring us together again. I 
shall probably visit New England this summer, and propose 
spending some time with you. 

" You must have enjoyed your visit to Boston exceed- 
ingly, and I truly congratulate you on the interesting little 
charge you have brought home. It has fallen into gentle 
hands, where I should be willing to trust any thing the 
most sacred. 

" Yours ever and most sincerely, 

"J. A. Parker." 

[Extract from a Letter Home.] 

"Philadelphia, April, 1846. 

" I have been quite impatient to hear from home ; a few 
lines accompanying an acceptable favor, have been the only 
epistolary envoy to my humble court for some time. I am 
anxious to visit my home of other days, but this belongs to 
the future, and like all pertaining to that vague period, is 
stamped with uncertainty. Time must solve the problem, 
whether this happiness be mine. Hope travels on with us, 
through a world of many disappointments, throwing her 
light over some coming good, and making us forget the stern 
lessons of experience. 

" This long, cold winter has at length passed away, and 



SPRING — ABSENT FRIENDS. 125 

the sweet season of spring has come again with her reviv- 
ing vegetation and gentle gales, from the warm chambers of 
the South. Have you felt them yet so far north as New 
Hampshire ? As I look upon the beautiful public square, 
in front of our residence, clothed in all the verdure of the 
summer, I am reminded by contrast of the few charms pre- 
sented by the 'mountain land' at this season of the year, 
where nature is bashful in ' coming out.' 

* Pardon my apparent negligence in writing, and remem- 
ber my engagements are numerous, — leisure hours are few. 
The heart may be warm when the pen is silent." 

The following is the first of a series of letters ad- 
dressed to Miss C. M. of Philadelphia. The extracts 
made will sufficiently express the high estimation 
she occupied in the respect and affection of Miss 
Parker. The first is written from her own home. 

"Acworth, N. H., August 25, 1846. 
" My dear C, — Although the pleasant summer day of 
my home visit is drawing to a close, yet I will endeavor to 
redeem a few moments from the busy idleness of my life to 
devote to thee, my far away friend. Please accept, then, 
this messenger, from my beloved father-land, although it 
may bring nothing of value, save the assurance that thou 
art fondly remembered and truly loved. It was with much 
regret that I was obliged to leave the city without saying 
to thee adieu, and obtaining from you the promise of a let- 
ter in my absence. But you remember what a habit the 
w r eather had of raining at that time, which, like all bad hab- 
its, was with difficulty broken off. But my dear C, much 
> as I love you and my other friends who are absent, I have 
never found it half so difficult to fold up in a sheet of paper 
the warm emotions of my heart, or to bring the discursive 
11* 



126 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

thoughts to the point of my pen. Want of time, do you 
ask? Oh dear, my much leisure has been almost a burden ! 
But such a new, strange existence, is this for me. A reunion 
•with the true-hearted of other days, after long absence ; the 
sight of many familiar scenes, all speaking to the heart in 
their still small voices of the solemn past ! A renewal of 
those pure joys that cluster only around the soul's one sanc- 
tuary, — the sacred spot we love at all times and in all 
places to call home. All these things have made the last 
few years, spent in a strange land, seem to me like a dream, 
from which I awake to find myself ' a child again,' sheltered 
(beneath the domestic wing, all ignorant of life's cares, and 
the world's experience. But alas ! too soon must the fare- 
well word be spoken, and this sweet holiday will fade away 
into remembrance, like some fair vision of happiness too 
beautiful to last. Oh, ever thus it must be on earth, where 
joy findeth no abiding city, the yearning heart no place 
where it may rest forever ! 

" How much I wish, my dear friend, that you could visit 
~New England. You could not help loving this beautiful 
region, with its grand old hills, its majestic forests, its fairy 
nooks and dells, where romance and poetry linger, its pure 
mountain air, life and health-inspiring, and above all, its 
hospitable and generous people. Here both comforts and 
luxuries abound, and they are as free as the spirit of liber- 
ality can make them. If such distance did not divide us, I 
would bring you, this day, to my country home. You should 
-see our charming little village, embosomed in shade, with its 
white dwellings that seem the abodes of peace and serenity. 
Upon this gentle eminence ' my father's house.' Enter the 
gate, and there you will find a brotherhood of trees, 
with many a sister flower, all my childhood's much loved # 
friends, with whom I hold daily communion. Come in at 
the open door, — but stoop, as you are tall ; for this cluster- 



HOME — WOODBINE — LETTERS. 127 

ing woodbine is a wild, lawless youth, fond of breaking 
away from restraint, and with some of his long arms he may 
reach down and disarrange your beautiful hair. Then come 
to my chamber, yes, to my own chamber, and seated at this 
window, tell me if you ever saw a more glorious panorama 
of surrounding hills, — a more charming country ! But 
stop, my wild pen, thou art catching something of the spirit 
of these hills. It is home to thee, and me, and we see all 
through the coleur de rose, of our own fond imaginings. 
But our city friend may become weary of our dear conceits, 
and we will be merciful. 

" Yours, most truly, 

"J. A. Parker." 

[A Letter to Miss B< .] 

" Philadelphia, October, 1846. 

"My dearest and best N., — I dare say you have 
thought me, a hundred times, a forgetful, promise-breaking 
person, wholly unworthy such a friend as thyself. But do 
not be angry at my long silence, but listen to my arrange- 
ments. I did intend to write you as soon as I should again 
become domesticated in Philadelphia. But you know how 
it is, in getting back to a place - — what unpackings, and 
regulatings, and fixings, that not only confuse the brain, but 
knock most impudently against the heart's best friendships. 

Next came Miss C and her precious package of letters, 

which I was most happy to meet, — both herself and letters. 
Again I mentally promised my first leisure should be yours ; 
and one day as I was bent upon putting my promise in exe- 
cution, I found our friend L had just fitted out, for 

your coast, a friendly expedition, freighted, I fancy, with 
many heart-warm effusions. Although I could not obtain, 
even by begging, the privilege of a glance therein, I 



128 BIOGRAPHICAL, 

thought it not safe for you to receive two such messengers in 
one day, at your quiet home, as some one there might sus- 
pect we had entered into a conspiracy to steal you away, or, 
perchance, they might unfit you for your sober duties ; these 
considerations induced me to wait a little before writing you. 
But I shall be much offended should you ever imagine that 
you were forgotten by me. My book of memory contains 
no more pleasant chapter of recollections than my last 
happy visit to your home — your room — that lovely pros- 
pect — our charming rides — our social nights, and agree- 
able days — my gentle nurse — my most expert barber — 
my kind, dear friend ever, — all haunt my imagination still, 
and throw a cloud over the present by contrast, 

" Adieu, my dear friend ; may you be supremely blest and 
happy. 

" Yours ever, Julia." 

Early in December of this year Miss Parker 
sought, for the time, a more southern home. Her 
health had become much impaired, and the change 
was thought indispensably necessary to its restora- 
tion. A serious attack, the preceding winter, of 
cold, that resulted in hemorrhage of the lungs, proved 
the incipient stage of the disease that finally termi- 
nated her life. Arrested by a milder and more 
genial climate, there was a seeming restoration to 
the firmest health. But in an unexpected moment, 
the symptoms of the slumbering disease were to 
awake in alarming development, equally defying 
medical aid, the influence of climate, the solicitude 
of friends, and the soothing influence of devoted 
tenderness and care. 






ILLNESS SOUTHERN HOME. 129 

But we pursue the review of the few remaining 
years, numbered, no doubt, in wisdom and mercy. 
Surely, the ways of Heaven are not our ways. Om- 
niscience cannot err. It is ours to bow in profound 
acquiescence whether " He raise up, or cast down ; " 
whether " He kills, or makes alive." All is done in 
wisdom and goodness infinite. 



CHAPTER XL 

LETTER TO MISS B -, FROM EDGEFIELD, S. C. — FIRST IM- 
PRESSIONS OF SOtJTHERN LIFE — LETTER TO HER FATHER 
— LETTERS TO HER SISTER -=- EXTRACT FROM THE JOUR" 
NAL — CLOSE OF 1847, 

We pursue the narrative from extracts of corre- 
spondence of 1847, written in Edgefield, S. C. 

[To Miss B .] 

"January 25, 1847. 

" My dearest and best, — I hope you have not struck 
me from your list of friends, and consigned me over to con- 
demnation, although I have been silent all this long, long 
time, since the reception of your last kind favor. I am not 
wont to fill up my letters with apologies for delay. But I 
must tell you how impossible it has been for me to write 
you earlier than this. 

" I left our dear Philadelphia in company with my 
brother, on the first of December, — had a most tedious 
and unfortunate journey to Charleston, S. C, occasioned by 
accidents of sundry kinds, but finally reached my friends 
here in safety. Since I have been in this southern land life 
has had so much of the charm of variety and excitement, 



NEW SCENES — FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 131 

that I have been almost bewildered, and have not, till now, 
felt myself enough on terra Jlrma, mentally, to hold my pen 
steadily. Not that I have been particularly dissipated ; 
but every thing has been new to me. Riding in carriage 
and on horseback, rambling on foot, amid scenery such as I 
have never seen before, visiting, etc., all these have ab- 
sorbed my time. Yet, my dear friend, although there are 
times when I have found it difficult to despatch a written 
messenger to those I love, there are none in which they are 
forgotten. Life's 'better moments,' the stilly eve, the un- 
slumbering hour of night, the season of prayer and quiet 

meditation, — all are so much theirs. But, my dear N , 

if I should not write you for half a century, you must not 
.think yourself the less dear, or that I am unmindful of the 
delightful hours sanctified in the past, that we have spent 
together ; or that I shall ever cease to love you as a sister* 
Never can I forget the pleasure attending my visits to your 
pleasant home. They are among the brightest pages of my 
memory's varied book, and in the light of these sunny days 
shall I remember thee. 

" Of life as it passes with me r I acknowledge it is as 
pleasant and as free from the annoyances of this trouble- 
some world as I ever expect will be my portion. But alas ! 
the trail of the serpent is over all terrestial joys. The sad 
thought that so many a weary league lies between me and 
all I most love and cherish on earth, is quite enough to dash 
my cup with tears, and throw a gloom over the fairest 
scenes. I have sought this sunny land for health, rather 
than pleasure ; and should I find the climate congenial, may 
remain for the present. 

" Write me soon and tell me how you are spending the* 
winter. I cannot tell you how much occasion I have to 
congratulate myself that cold winter is, with me, only a fancy 
sketch. Indeed, life seems worth more here in a soft, mild 



132 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

climate. A lady whom I visited the other day presented 
me some hyacinths from her garden, beautiful and fragrant 
as in summer. I will preserve for your herbarium some 
of these southern flowers. When I write again, I will tell 
you of the natural features of this region, so novel in aspect. 
" Adieu, my dear friend. Heaven's choicest gifts be 
thine. Julia." 

[Extract from a Letter to her Father.] 

"January, 1847. 

" Although more than a thousand weary miles now lie 
between us like a dark barrier, from my heart, froin 
its warmest sympathies, you are not separated. Although 
far from the hallowed associations of early life, I rejoice 
that there is one paradise in this world of vicissitude, from 
which there is no exclusion, — the paradise of memory. 
Ah, yes, although I may not see you, I can remember and 
love in one place as in another ! So that for those who are 
really united in affection, there is, in one sense, no parting. 
I will tell you something of my new landing-place in the 
voyage of life. I am in Edgefield, one hundred and forty 
miles from Charleston. The county town — a very pleas- 
ant town indeed — good society, a healthy location, the 
people polite and attentive to strangers. 

"I feel that I have much reason to love these kind- 
hearted friends of the South. Their peculiar institutions in 
no way trouble me. Slavery here, from a near view, so far 
as observation goes, wears a mild aspect. The colored pop- 
ulation seem in a better condition than in our northern 
cities. Such appears the outside view." 



PROVIDENCE — PARTING HOUR. 133 

[To her Sister.] 

"Edgefield, March 10, 1847. 
******* 
" More than ever do I feel that my steps in life have been 
ordered, — that they have not been the result of chance, — 
that every trial has an aim and purpose. And sure I am, that 
not one has been sent that was not needed for the correc- 
tion of some sin, or the teaching of some important truth. 
6 Sweet are the uses of adversity,' and although while in the 
furnace of trial I have felt little submission, for the results 
on my own character, I feel that I can bless God. Give 
me your daily and earnest prayers, ' as well for the body as 
the soul,' that all things requisite may be vouchsafed to me. 
Do not feel sad for the great distance that lies between us- 
If separate, the number of miles is of little consequence." 

|To the Same.] 

"Edgkfield, September, 1847"- 
" My dearest Sister, — 

" How I remember the parting hour which you so graph- 
ically call to recollection. Oh, yes ! not less than yourself 
did I then most ardently wish for one spirit gift, that I might 
read the cabalistic marks of destiny, so deeply shrouded in 
the mists of a vague futurity ; by which I might have 
known whether the scenes before me were to be of weal or 
woe. But hope, chamelion-like, borrows its hues from 
memory, and thou canst well fancy that as I was about to> 
bid thee, and those most loved, farewell, my heart, ' like a 
muffled drum,' beat most sadly to the tune, i I would not 
live alway/ Never shall I forget how instinctively you 
seemed to know my feelings, as I was to go forth again from 
my cherished home, — and how, like an angel, you called 
my attention to that most comforting psalm, so fraught with 

12 



134 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

the assurances of God's guardian care over his creatures. 
That portion of the Holy Scriptures I have never read 
since, without its proving a sweet memento of that parting 
scene. 

" Would that our paths of destiny lay less widely asunder. 
But a wiser than we is the Author of our allotments in 
life, and I believe that all things will work together for 
good to those who love God. Were I sure my name be- 
longed to the list of such, no event in life, however dark, 
could shake my trust in God." 

[To the Same.] 

"December, 1847. 

" It is one year since I reached this sunny land, — a year 
ever to be remembered as one of the happiest of my life. 
4 The rushing river of time* has borne me over many a 
rock and quick-sand ; yet my barque seems quite sound and 
sea-worthy, notwithstanding I have, for the past year, been 
boating about, in calm, deep water, untroubled by storms, 
and heaven protected." 

We find the following in pencil, on a page of the 
diary, bearing date of November of this year: — , 

a The year of my sojourn in Edgefield. Sabbath. A 
volume of ' Suddards' British Pulpit ' lies before me. The 
sermon I have selected is on the ' recognition of friends in 
heaven.' Denied this, heaven would be no heaven to me. 
But if I ever reach that happy place, I know, I feel that 
this will not be wanting to my felicity. Heaven will be the 
consummation and perfection of our present happiness, differ- 
ing in degree only, not in kind. Here our purest joy is in 
the communion of kindred natures. Will our happiness 
there be marred and this source cut off? Ah ! heaven is 



RECOGNITION OF FRIENDS. 135 

complete in bliss, leaving not that vacuum within that this 
alone can fill. If I cannot recognize my friends in glory, the 
powers of my mind are to be injured by the change called 
death. But this cannot be without God's permission and 
agency. And will he mutilate his own most glorious work, 
the soul ? Will he blot out my memory, and impair my 
judgment ? We believe that the lost will recognize each 
other, and the mutual taunt, and censure, and curse, will 
greatly aggravate their sufferings. Why, on the same prin- 
ciple, may not the good remember each other, — some will 
be identified ? We shall sit down with Abraham, Isaac, 
and Jacob. Why may not others be recognized ? Will all 
others flit before us„unstoried and nameless, so that we shall 
know nothing of their history ? 

" But the arguments from Scripture are conclusive. Da- 
vid says, c I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me.' 
The apostles looked forward to the results of their labors, 
in the souls redeemed through their instrumentality, as a 
blessed reward. Jesus said, ' inasmuch as ye have done it 
unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me.' 6 
death, where is thy sting ! grave, where is thy victory ? 
This implies that all the sad consequences of death, and 
what more sad than the separation of friends, shall be re- 
paired. 

u i Thou hast redeemed us to God, out of every nation/ etc. 
This is a rush of the past upon the soul. A comparison 
between past sufferings, and present bliss. So pass in re- 
view the gathered memorials of another year. 



CHAPTER X1L 

LETTER TO HER BROTHER — LETTER TO MISS i— , MAY- 
DAY CELEBRATION- — ADDRESS TO THE QUEEK OF MAY-- 

THE REPLY — LETTERS TO MISS M— -, TO MISS L-^ , 

TO MISS M— - , TO MISS L— — , TO HER BROTHER, 

Memoib continued from the correspondence of 

1848. 

" Clabenb^n, Match,- 184& 

" My dear Brother, — Your letter must have fancied 
itself born in the sixteenth, rather than the nineteenth cen- 
tury ; since from the slowness of its motions, it has shown 
itself wholly ignorant of steam or magnetism! Just one 
month from the date it bears, has it been travelling. 
Whether in the mean time it has made the tour of Europe, 
or visited ' the Holy Land,' I cannot tell. If such time be 
required for a transit from Virginia to the Palmetto State, 
you will have to lessen greatly the intervals that elapse be- 
tween your letters ; otherwise I should not expect to hear 
from you but a few times in a life long. But I was right glad 
to get tangible proof, at this late hour, that you are ' still 
scuffling ' as our old Dick has it, when inquired of as to 
his heavenward progress; while in these intervals of this 
same active operation, ' hatching a future home.' Now, in 
both of these grand operations, I wish you victory, — es- 
pecially in the latter. I cannot but think it will be some- 
thing remarkable if the result bears any relation to the period 



A DREAM RESIDENCE. 137 

of incubation. Besides, why should I not feel a personal 
interest in the matter since the garret is to be consecrated 
to m y literary genius ! I had a dream this morning, ' and it 
was not all a dream.' Lo ! the vision that rose up before 
mine eyes was this. It was far in the twentieth century, 
and there stood on the banks of the Ohio the dilapidated 
remains of what had been a very sumptuous and aristo- 
cratic mansion. It was uninhabited, and a little old porter 
stood at the door to receive money from the crowd that 
constantly thronged the spot. On inquiring the reason of 
all this, I learned that the house had formerly been occupied 
by i a Gelebrata,' the most distinguished woman of her time ; 
a great wit, a great authoress, — in fine a great woman, who 
after having given tone to the education of her country- 
women, for some forty years, had retired to this then 

charming residence of her brother, one Dr. P , to 

spend the evening of her days in the elegant pursuits of 
literature. I further learned that the attic at which so 
great a multitude were aiming, had been the room in which 
were composed those immortal works destined to be coeval 
with the language, namely, ' The Philadelphiad,' ' II Vaga- 
bonda,' ' Celebrata's Lament for the Loss of Hearing/ to- 
gether with numberless other productions, but not so highly 
gifted. Now, my brother, what this dream signified, or 
w T hat is the interpretation thereof, I cannot tell ; but it has 
made so deep an impression on my mind, that I am not sure 
that it may not be prophetic. 

" But turning from the subject of my remarkable dream, 
you will expect my present abode to sit for its picture, and 
this to be done expressly for your benefit. Well, that castle 
of a house that you see in the tableau, with long piazza 
all around, great green shutters, rickety flights of stairs 
leading all about where no one wishes to go, and surrounded 
by a score or two of out-houses, and an array of huge oaks 
and pines, is the place where I live. All about you see 
12* 



138 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

sand, nothing but sand. It is neither town, village, or coun- 
try, but a settlement of delightful people, mostly bearing the 

name of R . They are wealthy planters, owning fine 

^estates, level as a prairie region, and extending many miles. 
Nearly all this was once the property of one man. On 
«each plantation is a winter residence ; while they come up 
to these sand-hills in summer for health. In winter there 
.are, of course, few families here, while in summer quite a 
Harge number. The dwellings are many of them beautiful, — 
some superb. One mansion rivalling the elegance of our 
cities. The people exceedingly kind and hospitable. We 
have a nice little gem of a church, where all the people at- 
tend punctually, and a clergyman of superior talents. He 
gave us a splendid dinner the other day at the Rectory. 

7& 3tr vfc vfc vfc rfe $£ 

" Ever your affectionate sister, 

"Julia A. Parker." 

Such are Miss Parker's early impressions of Cla- 
rendon, S. C, where two years passed very pleas- 
iantly, occupied most of the time in her chosen 
vocation. The salubrity of the situation, the refine- 
ment and the social character of its population, ren- 
dered it most attractive. This became subsequently 
her home ; and here amid those she learned to love 
;so truly, now reposes the sacred dust. 

[Extract from a Letter to Miss L.] 

Clarendon, April, 1848. 
" My dear Friend, — For an answer these days to my 
letters, I seem to wait a long time. I had hoped to hear from 
you much before this. I calculate the time when I may 
reasonably expect a return, and the after delay passes slowly. 
We have but two mails in the week ; to their coming I 



GERMAN WRITERS CELEBRATION. 139 

look forward eagerly, and when they bring not what I 
most desire, a kind of desperation seizes me. For the last 
two weeks my papers even, have not been received. Uncle 
Sam's clock-work must be getting deranged, and you forget- 
ful, my friend. As to the papers, I look with perhaps 
more than common interest, as occasionally a literary effort 
of my own appears." 

******* 

" I am reading ' Coleridge's Translation of Schiller's 
Tragedies.' They are splendid. Have you read the death 
of Wallenstein ? 

" A May party comes off here next week, — a pretty and 
poetical thing anywhere ; but decidedly so in this sunny 
clime, where Flora decks with garlands of the rarest hue 
and fragrance the beautiful spring. Great preparations 
are being made. Every luxury desired for the table, all 
sorts of finery, have been ordered from Charleston. The 
party is to be held in an oak grove, very near our house. 
The procession to wind about among the trees before reach- 
ing the throne. It will be vastly pretty, I imagine, — to 
consist of a queen, her maids of honor, the seasons, the 
Flora's, etc. etc., preceded by a herald. The dresses to be 
of thin white muslin, white slippers, white kid gloves, blue 
sashes, with wreaths on their heads. The whole population 
seem to be in a state of agreeable excitement on the occa- 
sion, as such exhibitions are here uncommon. I wish so 
much you were to be present, for your presence would make 
even a crowd agreeable. Latterly, more than ever, I dis- 
like to make one in the midst of congregated humanity. 
I much prefer solitude. All around me are so kind ; but 
the veil may not be lifted from the soul, as with thee, my 
friend. 

" Write soon and often. 

" Yours ever, in warmth and affection, Julia." 



140 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

We give, in memory of the gala-day referred to in 
the preceding letter, the verses composed for the fes- 
tive occasion by Miss Parker. 

ADDRESS TO THE QUEEN OF MAY. 

" The glorious spring again has come, 

On her triumphal way, 
With captives bright, from beauty's realm, 

To own her gentle sway. 
And we have come, maiden fair, 

With flowing garlands gay, 
To wreath around thy golden hair, 

And crown thee Queen of May. 

" The soft blue skies above us bend, — 

The angels' home of light, 
And earth sends up her fragrant breath, 

In her green beauty bright — 
While whispering leaves, and quiet shades, 

The wild bird's choral lay, 
And all bright things that round us smile, 

Proclaim thee Queen of May/' 

" The holy spell of this sweet hour, 

Alas ! it cannot stay ; 
And the blithe month of buds and flowers, 

Must haste, like youth, away. 
But oh, we '11 cherish in coming years, 

The memory of this day, 
When our hearts were gay as the floral wreath, 

That crowns thee Queen of May. 

THE MAY QUEEN'S REPLY. 

" Let the regal lady of England's throne 
Boast the wealth of her coronal fair, 
Where the ruby's blaze, and the diamond's light, 
And orient pearls, in their radiance bright, 
Gleam forth from her shining hair. 



ADDRESS AND REPLY. 141 

" The costly tiara, that gilds her brow, 
And the pomp of her sceptred pride, 
Are purchased by labor, ' sorrow and care/ 
And the weary hours, that the poor must share, 
While her days in splendor glide. 

" But the garland I wear, my gentle maids, 
By the tear-drop has never been wet, 
No sorrow and care have brought from the mines, 
The wealth of the rainbow, with which it shines, 
The gems with which it is set. 

" ' Tis the bright free gift of the joyous spring. 
Which your own snowy hands have wove, 
And the sceptre I bear, on this glad day, 
The first of the beauteous train of May, 
Is the sceptre of joy and love." 

[Extract from a Letter to Miss M , of Philadelphia.] 

"Clarendon, S. C, June, 1848. 
" My dear Cecelia, — I trust you have no doubts in 
regard to the punctual arrival of your late messenger, al- 
though I have allowed a few weeks to glide away in silence. 
I consulted my heart ; it bade a speedy return to you of its 
own best treasures ; but how could I, dear St. Cecelia, fol- 
low such an unceremonious counsellor, when my letter was 
allowed time to grow pale with age, before it called forth 
a response ? You mentioned that the lamp blew out on 
one occasion ; and if I had been at all suspicious in disposi- 
tion, I surely might have believed that it was while you 
were on the first page of my epistle, and that the residue 
came to light some months after. But I find it is never best 
to be too curious; neither in the common or more intimate 
relations of life. Apropos of intimate relations. You ask 
if I have yet found one to agree with me in all my senti- 
ments ? Let me answer in Mrs. Hemans' own sweet lan- 
guage:— 



142 BIOGRAPHICAL. - 

' But for those bonds all perfect made, 
Wherein bright spirits blend 
Like sister flowers, of one sweet shade, 
With the same breeze that bend, 
For that full bliss, of thought allied, 
Never to mortals given, 
Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside, 
Or lift them unto heaven/ 

" I may seem, my dear C, to be losing, in some degree, the 
early romance and trustfulness of heart. I see and have 
seen so much of false profession and groundless pretension, 
I am much more inclined to separate the real from the un- 
real than formerly. Indeed, I am disposed to open the 
heart to but few. But my faith in truth and sincerity, in 
the abstract, is firm and unshaken ; and when I do meet 
with sterling gold, I seize and hold it with a miser's grasp." 

[To Miss L .] 

"Charleston, S. C, July 5, 1848. 
" My dear Friend, — This is the glorious fifth, rather 
than fourth, and I am in Charleston on my way, — but not 
to Virginia. I am truly sorry now that I wrote you of 
coming. Yet it was done in purest kindness, that should I 
come, it might not be too much of a surprise. But I find it 
impossible to accompany our friend further on the way. 
Do not feel too much disappointed, for the time of our 
meeting cannot be far distant. Yet this hope deferred, do 
we not equally know, brings with it both sadness and sick- 
ness of heart. Yet will we hope on, and hope ever. It is 
the happiest tendency of our nature, the foreshadowing of fu- 
ture good. The high and Holy One in whom we trust hath 
never formed this frail humanity to be mocked by phantoms, 
to be ever deceived by the heart's fondest desires. We shall 
meet again, and in our happiness forget this long separation. 



CHARLESTON — CELEBRATION. 143 

"Yesterday, you may imagine, was a day of no little 
bustle in this city. Such a crowd, such a want of space 
whereon to stand. Had I not been in possession of a goodly 
pair of shoes, I could never have boasted again of a pair of 
feet. Before breakfast this entire population seemed all in 
the streets to witness a very fine display of the military. I 
partook in full share the desire of sight-seeing ; but the 
pavements were so hard, the sun so scorching, even at that 
early hour, I was glad enough to find the refreshment of 
breakfast, and a shelter from the sun, at nine o'clock. 

" At eleven o'clock there was another grand rush to see 
the procession of the temperance societies, with their music, 
badges, and regalia, — all quite imposing down here, where 
free opinion, not legislation, rules in these matters. Then 
after another short interval we went to the City Hall to 
hear the oration for the occasion, delivered by Col. J. L. Man- 
ning, of Clarendon. This was very fine — the band excel- 
lent. The grand finale of the day was a series of brilliant 
fireworks, which lasted until a late hour. A most weary, 
worn out piece of humanity did I find myself in the end, — 
the like fatigue I never endured before. 

" To-day I have mostly spent in shopping, — a laborious 
business. To-morrow return to Clarendon. Two months 
of leisure await me there, and the present design is, to de- 
vote the interval to writing, completing at least one taie, 
which, if published, will be most applicable for the S. S. 
Union. My pen, as my life, I would consecrate to a pure 
and vital morality, desiring to promote excellence, conse- 
quently happiness. Thus will I endeavor to improve the 
interval of absence, so that with increased and hearty ap- 
proval you will greet me, when indeed we are so happy as 
to meet again. 

" I have a lovely class of girls under my charge ; and 
never have I felt that I was better appreciated. Nothing 



144 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

can exceed the kind and delicate attentions I daily and 
hourly receive. 

" Write me soon, and forget this present disappointment. 
"Yours always, Julia." 

[To Miss M , of Philadelphia.] 

" Clarendon, September 2, 1848. 
"Mr dear, doubting C (yet good, notwithstand- 
ing) ; one I love much, although she dares not to tell out any 
such secret to me. I have again read over your letter, and 
gather from it this much, — that you w T ould like to love me, 
if you were sure I would never undervalue this love. But 
doubt has so entirely taken possession of your heart, I am 
really afraid it will jostle all affection for your absent friend 

out of the premises. Now, my dear C , I understand 

enough, I believe, of your composition, to be quite sure that 
you have been imagining, for a long time, that my silence is 
significant ; that I, forsooth, must be getting very indifferent. 
Now, child, you must never think thus of me ; you must 
never doubt my truthfulness and sincerity, although I may 
sometimes be long in answering your letters ; and, more- 
over, may think these answers very dull when they are 

received. All this may be ; my dearest C you must 

not doubt that I love you warmly ; that I could relinquish 
many things, yea all this golden sunshine, the soft attrac- 
tions of my adopted home, for one of those soul communings 
with you, which like pressed flowers, perfume the leaflets of 
memory, and throw over the present its sweetest charm. 
But when, ah, when shall the time be ? When shall I be- 
hold again the dear city of sisterly love, with all its right 
angles and wet pavements, and hearts of kind and true 
affection ? Alas ! I know not. I cannot push aside the cur- 
tain of uncertainty that hangs before my future, and dis 



RETURN — PHILADELPHIA. 145 

cover that event in the cheering vista. Would that I could 
but view it. But I cannot walk by sight ; I am counselled 
to go by faith. I therefore trust that all things will happen 
well, since our heavenly Father guides the helm in all our 
affairs. 

"I dare say you have seen much of our friend J . If 

light, air, and sunshine are pleasant to the captive, who has 
for a long time seen nothing but the prison walls, — heard 
no gentler sound than the clanking of his chains, — surely 
her spirit could not have been less refreshed by the sight of 
home, and friends, and native land again. But, alas for 
human enjoyments ! intense pleasures are short-lived and 
fleeting as the summer floweret. I suppose, ere this, the cir- 
cle of friendly greetings has been made, — the events of the 
past worn-out themes, — old stereotyped habits again re- 
sumed, and the pains of absence remembered but as a 
vision of the night. 

You speak of the infectious manners of your native city, 
and regret having been educated there. The inhabitants of 

P , as a whole, may perhaps be considered very formal, 

and somewhat cold. Yet it seems to me that the human heart 
has everywhere in itself much of kindness ; and we need: 
only to understand the art of calling it out. We often think 
others cold, when we ourselves are so. My dear friend, let 
us cherish for all the kindly feeling that should mark the 
intercourse of those bound together by the ties of humanity ; 
and above all, let us cherish for the, few, to whom we give 
the sacred name of friend, a trusting, confiding, undying; 
affection, that circumstances cannot alter, time nor absence 
chill. 

* # * * # *. #• 

Thine truly, Julia., 

13 



146 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

[To Miss L .] 

"Clarendon, September 15, 1848. 

" Dearest E , — When I tell you that I have turned 

in hither, that is, into my quiet room, and shut out the glo- 
rious moonlight of c such a night as this,' with all its witch- 
ing poetry, delightful associations, and soothing influences, 
that I may prove my loyalty to thee, surely henceforth you 
will believe that nothing, however pleasant, can make me 
forget. Think not for a moment that these new friends, that 
throw such a charm around my exile, can steal my heart 
from those to whom time has bound me by far dearer, ten- 
derer ties. Kind, delicate, and profuse as are the attentions 
of these strangers to me ; strong and deep as is the grati- 
tude with which my heart responds to their sympathies ; yet 
I cannot describe to you the yearning I often feel for some 
familiar face, that can speak to me of the past ; the sound of 
some familiar voice that may awaken the chords of memory. 
With what joy would I abandon this stupid pen, if I could 
sit down by your side, in this soft moonlight, and talk to 
you, as I can only talk to a friend ; talk to you as w r e used 
to talk together. But, alas ! I know not when this will be 
permitted to us again, or when I shall meet again the dear 
household band from whom I am so widely separated. The 
life that is lengthened by this sacrifice, by this exile from 
home, although under sunny skies, seems at times scarcely 
worth the sacrifice it demands. My father, broken in con- 
stitution by devotion to his profession, feeble in health, 
mourns my absence, and pines for my return. My sister 
seems sad and lonely, and lives in the hope that the future 
has in store many happy meetings. She writes to me in 
such glowing terms of, the beauty of my rural home at this 
delightful season, as to make me long for the wings of a 
dove, that I might flee thither. She writes of the luxuriant, 



HOME — SCHOOL — SAND-HILLS. 147 

woodbine, the gravelled walk, the trees, the flowers, the 
grand old mountain scenery, with our variegated forests, and 
the thousand charms of our native village. Beautiful and 
charming as it is in summer, I bethink me of its fierce, stern 
winters, of its mountain winds and dreary snows, and all 
the dread parapharnalia of that most desolate season. Then 
it is that I am satisfied, and look upon this gentle climate, 
with all its deprivations, as one of the best gifts of a kind 
providence to me. Yet I cannot but regret the hard neces- 
sity that compels me to live among strangers, when so pleas- 
ant a home is mine ; and feel, had it chanced to have been 
located in some more genial spot, how full and pure the hap- 
piness I should find in that little circle I so much love. But 
in these appointments, truly, * whatever is, is right,' and I 
love to think that in all the circumstances of life ■ there is a 
Divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.' 
But if I must be an exile from home, I certainly could not 
be happier anywhere than here. Kindness meets me at 
every turn ; every day I receive proofs of the sympathy of 
this generous people- 

" My school could not be more pleasant, — the pupils 
docile, amiable, and obedient to my every wish. The most 
perfect order reigns in it, and this I have not been obliged to 
secure by any severity, — any occasion for reproof is ex- 
ceedingly rare. I feel in them a deep interest, and con- 
sciousness that I am doing them good, brings with it the best 
recompense, 

" But life in these sand-hills is as monotonous as the 
scenery, I often think if you were here, it would seem to 
you unspeakably dull. We differ, you know, a trifle in taste 
as in other matters. You like the excitement of a city life, 
while I think Jerusalem is the place, where men ought to 
worship. I do not imagine I should be taken for an ascetic ; 
but on the whole, gay as may be my disposition, I think I 



148 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

like the quiet repose of country life. But there is a 
great dearth of reading, which is, to me, a serious objection 
to this sand-bank. No good libraries, no provision for the 
noblest part of our nature. Books are such resources, — 
such excellent friends, such able counsellors. I pity those 
who find no meaning in them. I am now reading that old 
donkey of a priest, Froissart ; whom I fancy, thought it 
better to tell a good embroidered tale, than a bad and thread- 
bare one. The bones of his heroes were fruitful in mira- 
cles. 

" Your letter from the Academy of the Fine Arts has just 
reached me. Thank you for the account of your visit. I 
confess myself something of a barbarian, but in time hope 
to improve. I glory in the rising genius of our country- 
men in this department. Powers has already wreathed his 
Jove-like brow with laurels, as unfading as those of Phidias 
himself. There is a glory in art, revealing the mightiness of 
human intellect. The poet, the painter, and the sculptor — 
do not their productions speak in the plainest language of 
that inspiration, that renders the human mind so like its 
great Original ? " 

[To the Same.] 

" Clarendon, September, 1848. 
" My dear E., — It is pouring without, as if it intended 
to make atonement for past remissness. It is a short 
age since we had a drop from the treasures of heaven. 
Since this gentle month of autumn has made her advent, 
she has clung so closely to the skirts of her predecessor, and 
with such tenacity, that we have been forced to believe, that 
summer will be regent, if she can be no longer queen. I 
would ask a feat of my golden quill, that I might here give 
you some idea of the burning, liquefying heat we have en- 
dured for the past week, if I did not imagine that you had 



CLIMATE FEVERS HEALTH. 149 

been long enough in Philadelphia to comprehend, without 
my aid, what it is * to feel warm.' You know both myself 
and constitution fancy warm weather ; but it is passing 
strange, in this world, we can scarcely have enough of a 
good thing without a surplus. The man who prayed for 
water, and had the Ganges turned into his grounds, — the 
lady who prayed for a bosom friend, and had thirteen sent 
upon her at once, were certainly to be pitied ; but I, who 
just wished for a comfortable climate, to be fused, without 
any probability of regaining my original brightness, deserve, 
par excellence, the commiseration of every feeling heart. 
I assure you never since I bade you i good bye,' have the 
green fields and bracing air of my northern home had such 
magic for my thoughts, as for these last few days. What 
a delightful sensation it must be to shiver ! We should 
never think ourselves blest unless we can keep cool, is a 
maxim whose beauty I never fully comprehended. 

"You will think, perhaps, this hot, dry weather, must 
bring sickness. It would seem so ; yet, with the exception of 
one family living in an unhealthy location, no fevers have 
appeared among the white population of these sand-hills. 
This family, to whom I allude, have nearly all been sick. 
Last week I was there, and found every member sick but one 
sweet little girl, of lovely complexion and blue eyes. There 
was something so interesting about her, that I could not at 
times turn my gaze from her. She was the incarnation of 
health. Sunday morning she grew sick while preparing for 
Sunday-school ; to-day, Wednesday, has been buried. Thus 
rapidly and fatally often terminate these fevers. But a kind 
Providence has hitherto watched over me, sparing a life that 
I would fain believe is not entirely useless. By common 
consent our residence is reckoned the most airy and salubri- 
ous in situation of any in the place. My health is excellent. 
The only remains of former nervousness, is sleeplessness 

13* 



150 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

-at night. I have so much for which to be thankful, and I 
strive to feel so, for the numberless blessings I enjoy. 

" I must not omit to make known my intention of troub- 
ling you with sundry commissions, as penalty perhaps you 
ttake it, for your long sojourn amid bricks and mortar, taste- 
fully arranged and ornamented, when you should be inhal- 
ing the air of your native mountains, and cherishing the 
Ihearts that love you most. 

* * ' # * * * * 

" And now, my friend, good-night for this time. I make 
:an end of essay, admonition, and commission. 

" Affectionately yours, Julia." 

[To the Same.] 

" Clarendon, November, 1848. 

" Dearest E. — Saturday night has come, and I bethink 
sme that I have not penned an epistle to thee since the de- 
parture of its predecessor ' to the silent land.' My inten- 
tion is to write weekly, but now and then obstacles will arise 
between thee and me, and the two mail days are among the 
departed before I am ready to let them slfp. But stop — 
oio apologies to thee, the most exacting ! particularly no 
' flimsy ones.' As I never profess to deal in any thing 
much more substantial than gossamer, I will have done 
with wasting paper upon what you place so little value. 

" But these Saturdays I think more of than all the other 
•days of the week, — I mean days of care. They are so 
much thine, my best friend, so much of every week, devoted 
to my best performances. It is then I brush aside any 
shadows that care may have thrown upon thy image in my 
heart, deeming thee present, talking with thee, through an 
interpreter, it is true, yet even as if necessity demanded 
none, saying every thing I think and feel. 



THE BIBLE — EVENINGS — POETRY. 151 

" The Bible class, too, meets on Saturday, and this I 
attend with the utmost punctuality. We are studying the 
Gospel to St. John. Our clergyman, who is one of the best 
men in the whole world, makes the lesson deeply interest- 
ing, and most profitable to the whole class. The Bible is 
an 'open book.' I study it with the truest pleasure, and the 
heart's most ardent desire is, that I may in all things be 
governed by its principles. Indeed, it is a wonderful book ; 
a mine that no exploring can exhaust. 

******* 

" As the evenings become longer I find much time for 
reading and writing. Of the latter I could do much if I 
could get up a hearty interest, which I can do but seldom. 
Poetry has most of charm these days. I send, now and 
then, a fragment to i the Recorder.' You read that I be- 
lieve. I have been writing a scrap this week upon the new 
floating church, which you are aware, is now anchored in 
the port of Philadelphia. There is something to me so 
beautiful in the idea of these floating churches for seamen ! 
How much I should love to hear our grand, touching, soul- 
inspiring Liturgy read in them. 

" By the way, how many objects of interest are to be met 
with in a city, and those are happy who avail themselves of 
the many pleasures and advantages offered. 

****** * 

" You will think me in a dull and perhaps fault-finding 
mood this time. Please attribute it to a cold, damp day. 
Sunbeams let light into my soul ! Write me soon, my best 
friend. 

" Yours, most faithfully, Julia." 

One brief extract more closes the selections made 
from the correspondence of 1848. It is from a letter 
addressed to her brother. 



152 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

"Clarendon, S. C, December, 1848. 

"My Dear Brother, — Do you know that the fre- 
quency of your letters of late quite astonishes me ? Such 
long intervals have heretofore elapsed between them, that 
I had almost learned to think myself exiled from a brother's 
heart. But not more truly doth the prisoner welcome 
the sunbeams to his dungeon, than I to ray fond heart 
those tokens of your warm remembrance and truthful affec- 
tion 

" Happy, thrice happy, are those, my ever dear brother, 
who have never known the sundering of nature's ties ; but 
have been sheltered and blest ' in a little grove of their own 
kindred.' Next to bodily infirmity, in the train of human 
evils, do I regard this banishment from home, family, and 
friends — this separation from all who bless us, all whom we 
can bless. Strangers are touchingly kind to me ; but they 
must be strangers still. The full, free communion of the 
heart, the unity of interest, all are wanting. The tide of 
feeling moves only on the surface. No angel descends into 
the heart's depths ever to stir its waters. The best and 
holiest sentiments of the soul slumber in inaction." 

We would give a further extract from this very 
touching and affectionate epistle, revealing a heart 
so warm in its devotion to all that is beautiful and 
endearing ; yet we cannot but feel it sacrilege to 
yield to the public gaze that designed for one eye 
alone, addressed to the heart that claimed her child- 
hood's tenderness, her affection, admiration, and 
confidence, as years passed on. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

LETTER TO MISS M. — LETTER TO HER BROTHER — REMARK — 
LETTER TO MISS M. — LETTER TO MISS L. — LETTER TO 
HER BROTHER, DR. M. PARKER. 

[Correspondence of 1849.] 

" Clarendon, January 3, 1849. 

" Dearest Cecelia, — Your kind missive commissioned 
southward about the time of the Christmas festival, seems 
fraught with the heart, warmth, and friendliness of that 
youth-renewing season. My imagination saw in it smiling 
and happy faces, — the interchange of greeting and token, 
and heard deep prayers and soul-felt wishes, sent down the 
stream of the coming year. It gladdened my heart by its 
Christmas breathings, and woke in it many a gentle memory 
and enlivening hope. But as your letter must, in all things, 
resemble the holiday time, it seemed to have caught from 
the sky and earth a trifle of dampness, fog, and cloud, 
wherewith to dash its kindly elements ; and true to yourself, 
you must have a few doubts and misgivings. There is 
something of the naughty about you ; and if you write to 
me that word again, I shall charge you earnestly with hav- 
ing fished it up from some little pool in your own heart, 
named, in its geography, insincerity. I am true in all that I 
profess to be, from the crown of my head to the sole of my 
foot ; and the false pretension I abhor in others, I put from 



154 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

me as I would an infected garment. I love a character as 
open as the day, although like daylight, it might disclose 
some ugliness, that night might conceal. 

" You ask my opinion on ' detachment from creatures ' as 
drawing us nearer to the Creator. On this subject I am 
quite incompetent to advise. I can only speak in refer- 
ence to myself, that I do not think I love God less, because 
some of my fellow beings are very dear to me ! I believe 
if our heavenly Father designed us to find any happiness 
here below, he must have intended the purest, holiest, and 
most satisfying should flow from the sympathy and com- 
munion of kindred hearts. Indeed, I may say, that from this 
arises all in this world in which I take most interest. 

djL jji Alt Afe Jfe 3fc j|£ 

" Yours, always and truly, 

"Julia." 

" Clarendon, February 29, 1849. 

"My dear Brother, — How passes it with you to-day? 
Still a knight of the pestle and mortar, I suppose, — the 
scourge and terror of poor mortals ! Such a champion of 
maladies, fractures, and dislocations, — such a dealer with 
humanity in its most miserable estate ! You surely must 
have become hard-hearted, and most unfeeling before this 
time, for such I can but deem the tendency of your profes- 
sion. Perhaps, however, some balmy recollections and good 
influences tend to keep you still human. 

******* 

" When I think of your constant ill-health, trials mani- 
fold, and stern experience in life's warfare, I sometimes 
wonder and long to know exactly what you are at present, 
— whether you have lost all faith in the redeeming qualities 
of our common nature, — whether you suspect all that is 
externally fair to be but a mask for selfishness, — whether 



INFLUENCE OF PROFESSION — MISFORTUNES. 155 

misfortune, in whatever garb it may appear, is only another 
name for imprudence and miscalculation. Whether the 
omnipotent I and mine is the only deity of your adoration. 
I say, brother, I wish to know if such has been the effect 
upon you, of life in its reality and sternness ; or whether 
you are still trustful of virtue and goodness, — have still a 
tear, a helping-hand for the desolate and sorrowful, — still 
a heart rich in magnanimous, generous impulses, — a soul 
for sympathy, friendship, and affection, a spirit that would 
sacrifice itself upon the altar of good, rejoicing in the free- 
ness of the offering. Oh glorious fruits of the tree of 
knowledge of both good and evil, rich in goldenness and 
beauty ! My brother, I will believe you are a living imper- 
sonation of these virtues, and as such, enshrine you in my 
heart, and you must endeavor to be all what I think you are. 
******* 
" Speaking of misfortunes, I have sometimes thought my 
very soul crushed by them ; and that life for me could never 
more be clad in beauty. But it is not so. I am cheerful, 
hopeful, buoyant in spirits, and even gay. On my heart I 
bear no traces of suffering, treading in the path of duty 
with a light, elastic spirit, I will not be vanquished on the 
battle-field of life, but triumph until death conquers. Surely 
it is best not to yield. I will, like the nautilus, keep up my 
little sail in wind and tide, trusting that finally I shall reach 
a haven of rest, where all the tempests of life shall serve 
but to make the calm more peaceful and serene. Last 
night, for a wonder, I dreamed through the livelong hours 
of darkness. I seemed alternately with you and our mother. 
I thought I was seeing her again, before she died, — that I 
was making amends by love and devotion for all the care 
and sorrow I had ever caused her. She seemed tranquil 
and happy, and methought I was never so blest. I know 
not where I met you, — it was in some strange place. But 



156 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

you looked as in the olden time, and appeared to me so kind 
and good. Thus passed a night of pleasant dreams. I 
mention it because it is so rare a thing for me to dream of 
home scenes, and it has haunted my mind the day long." 

[To her Sister, on the Anniversary of her Mother's Death.] 

March 28. 
" . . . . This day is sacred to memory — sacred to the 
departed — sacred to heaven, where I trust our mother 
lives. So far as my duties and engagements allow, I have 
wished to make it a day of deep and solemn feeling. But 
from school I could not excuse myself, as when I was with 
my friend, who was always happy to bear a double portion, 
when I wished retirement. There is between us to-day, in an 
especial manner, a sympathy of heart, a blessed communion 
of spirit. The precious letter, written in the holy presence 
of the dead, just six years since, I have this hour perused. 
It has caused the wounded heart to bleed again afresh, and 
the tears to flow. It breathes such deep peace, such calm 
thoughtfulness, such sublime resignation, that while it probes 
the wound, it pours in balm. The lock of hair slightly sil- 
vered, lies still within its folds. And can it be, that six 
years have flown since that time ? Has she whom we loved 
so deeply, been six years in glory ? When we remember 
that the first glimpse of that heavenly land must have more 
than compensated for all of earth's sorrows, there is a sen- 
timent almost of joy springing up in the heart, that she has 
known six years of unspeakable and indescribable felicity. 
If I might bid the grave give up its prisoner, and command 
' the everlasting gates to lift up their heads,' for the return 
of the beatified spirit to earth, I would refuse the privilege. 
God grant that we may be reunited where hearts are never 
broken, and tears flow not. The soft and gentle spring will 
soon again walk the earth in beauty, and the flowers breathe 



MEMORIES DOUBT — AFFECTION. 157 

perfume and unfold their tints of loveliness over her sleep- 
ing dust. Would that I might, ere they fade away, visit 
the sacred spot, and learn a new lesson of world-renuncia- 
tion. 

* Tenderly, thy sister, Julia." 

The heart is moved by these touching memories so 
feelingly expressed. Yet why we give more, notwith- 
standing, from the miscellaneous correspondence,, 
than from letters addressed to the immediate mem- 
bers of her family, will be explained by the following 
note, which here meets us in the manuscript offered 
by her sister : — 

" I find myself more and more afraid, as I proceed to- 
make these extracts, knowing they were never intended by 
the writer for the public eye. I seem to feel her soft hand, 
drawing aside these precious lines, now doubly sacred." 

[To Miss M. of Philadelphia.] 

May, 1849.. 
" My dear C. — After waiting, that auspicious moment 
has at length arrived, when undisturbed, I can bid my heart 
intrust the expression of its warmth and affection to this 
chosen sheet, and hope some kind spirit will bear the same 
to you. Precious compensation for these earthly partings, 
is this letter-writing! I cannot look upon you, with these 
eyes, but I love to gaze upon this sheet on which your 
own will rest, and fancy it endowed with a power of com- 
prehending and conveying deeper thoughts than may flow 
through the dull medium of the pen ! I cannot press warm- 
ly and kindly your hand ; but as my own passes over the 
14 



158 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

page before me, I would fain believe that by some mysteri- 
ous magnetism it shall impart a thrill to yours, that shall 
speak of earnest, truthful, and fond affection. I would give 
utterance to words ; but alas ! they will fall upon the air un- 
meaningly, and your ear catch no echo thereof. But may 
these common-place symbols commune with thy heart in 
intelligible language. Thus, my dear friend, although these 
weary leagues do, and must continue to divide us, yet we 
will still meet in soul-converse, and confirm the mesmeric 
theory, that spirit may hold intercourse with spirit with- 
out the intermedium of the senses. When shall we again 
meet ?' I have, I regret to say, relinquished all thoughts of 
a glimpse of my own New England this summer. My 
brother, in western Virginia, has so urgently requested me 
to domiciliate myself pro tern at his mansion, that I have 
promised him to do so for the present ; and now I expect to 
journey west rather than north, when again at leisure. In 
that case, Philadelphia lies not en route, unless you can in- 
duce the stiff Quaker to change his locality from the Dela- 
ware to the Rappahannock, which I suppose he would not 
do, without a positive order from William Penn. But, in- 
deed, I am deeply disappointed that such is the necessity of 
the case. How gladly I would again have threaded the 
rectangular streets of your city, looking upon its familiar ob- 
jects, and more than all else the faces I once loved so well. 
But who can try to control his fate ? We must submit; for 
vain is resistance. . . . 

" In reply to your question in relation to occupation, I 
have learned that all places and employments have their 
own peculiar joys and disagreeables ; and that happiness is 
more likely to be found in a life of useful action than in 
excess of leisure, where the mind is left to prey upon itself. 

" But my dear C, until we put on the shining vestments 
of immortality, I do not think we ought to hope, or expect 



OCCUPATION — SOCIETY — ADMIRATION. 159 

too sanguinely ; for although I would not dwell too much 
on the side of prophetic ill, talking darkly, I find that ' the 
trail of the serpent ' may be traced upon the fairest flowers 
of earth. Yet still I believe that earth has flowers of a 
beauty and perfume that breathes of Eden ; and that we 
should plant as many as possible in our paths, dwelling 
fondly and gratefully on all a kind Providence has scattered 
there, to make our pilgrimage gladsome, as we pass on to 
that better country. . . . 

" You speak of your fondness for society and admiration, 
and say that in solitude you feel disappointment and dissat- 
isfaction. My dear friend, God has richly endowed you 
with those gifts and qualities that the world admires ; but I 
fear you are very sensitive, and inclined to ask too much 
from its applause. Do not be too exacting, and I am sure 
you will always receive as much admiration as is consistent 
with that humility, that God loves to honor. 

" Of this love of admiration I soon felt in my own case 
its presumption and folly ; this learned, I have asked little 
of the world ; but have received in kindness, sympathy, and 
affection, from some of its choicest spirits, far more than I 
had any right to ask. With these I am well content, and 
seek no longer the forbidden and unattainable. . . . 

" Yours, most sincerely, Julia." 

[To Miss L -.] 

"October, 1849. 
" Dearest E., — Although I have not one interesting 
thing to communicate to you, — no picture galleries visited,— 
no work of art admired, — no old friends to tell you a word 
about ; yet I write to-night for the simple reason, that I 
would spare you disappointment when the post-boy comes 
next time. The miserable feeling of hearing from no one, I 
have experienced this mail-day, — not even blessed with the 
sight of a gazette. Oh, there is a loneliness and deathlike 



160 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

stupor about this quiet country life, that has quite the con- 
trary effect of grief upon Falstaff ! It seems to contract the 
soul. You will think by the confession, that I am emerging 
from the chrysalis, into your theory of city excitement. 
Not so, exactly. All I have said in favor of country life is 
strictly true. Yet there are times when I so desire to see 
something, to think something, to hear something, that I 
would give up all this quiet and security for a small quan- 
tity of bustle and novelty. . . . 

" Has it not been to you a curious problem, in all you have 
seen of mankind in different societies, that there are so 
very few comparatively who think of any thing higher than 
commonplace topics of existence. It certainly is to me. I 
once thought depreciatingly of the narrow views and limited 
intelligence of the people among whom I was born. Yet I 
can truly say, they suffer not in comparison with those I 
have known elsewhere. Indeed, from New Hampshire to 
my present locality, I have not met more indication of mind 
than my own native town furnished. 

" How delightful it would be to live amid a refined intel- 
lectual caste of people, who valued knowledge at its own 
true worth, and could as truly appreciate it in others. But 
I do not believe that such society can be found in our own 
country, except on a limited scale. If I regarded only the 
homage of the world in general, I would much sooner sue 
for it with a good handful of dollars in my purse than with 
a golden mind. But all is no doubt right. Truth is appre- 
ciated slowly and almost imperceptibly by the mass of 
mankind; yet there is an onward and upward tendency in 
our common nature that does develop itself to the seeing 
eye. To aid this, to do the smallest act that favors human 
excellence, and consequently human happiness, makes the 
only worthy aim of existence. 

******* 
" Thine, so truly, Julia." 



HOME — PLEASANT MEMORIES. 161 

A brief extract from a letter to her sister bearing 
the date of September 1849. 

" I have long looked for a home messenger to assure me 
that my last was duly received and accredited. How ar- 
dently I desire to hear often from you, I can scarcely ex- 
press. Do you realize how far, how very far, I am from 
you ? And do you never reflect what a joy, a delight it 
must be, to have the post-boy bring me a folded sheet bear- 
ing the impress of a well-known hand ? Oh, if you would 
understand how wildly my heart beats at such times, how I 
can hardly refrain from tears of joy, you would oftener give 
me this pleasure ! How earnestly I desire to see again my 
native place ! Time hastens on, and I am ever fearful lest 
the grave should close over some one of the cherished band, 
ere we are again permitted to meet. For myself, did I feel 
fully prepared, my work done, I should long for its peaceful 
repose. But for a stronger assurance of happiness beyond ! 
I feel so deeply my errings and wanderings from the path 
of obedience, that I would fain hope for a little more time 
to be granted me, that I may prepare for heaven. 

" My last home visit is the brightest spot in my memory. 
It kindled more strongly, if possible, than ever before, that 
undying passion of the heart, — the love of kindred." 

[To Miss B .] 

"October, 5, 1849. 
" Dearest and best beloved, — A thousand thanks 
for your angel visit of a letter ! How deeply sorry I am 
that this long interval of silence has been like a great gulf 
between us ! As I had written last, I thought not myself 
in fault, but had I known that my dear N. was such an in- 
valid, that a letter of mine could have had in it any magic 
14* 



162 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

to relieve the tedium of a sick chamber, I would have turned 
night into day, — omitted any duty, however pressing, that 
I might despatch a weekly visitant to you, — to one I have 
loved with such unchanging devotion. But long and cold 
as has. been this silence, do not believe that I could forget, 
or grow indifferent to thee. A southern life has introduced 
me to new scenes, manners, and customs. Strangers have 
welcomed me with such kindness, and I have received such 
proofs of sincere friendship and regard from those on whom 
I had no claims, as to have caused sometimes the tear to 
start to my eye, so unexpected were they, and so undeserved. 
That I have found this, in my own experience, a cold and 
selfish world, I should be most ungrateful to affirm. And 
yet, my dearest friend, I have not been happy. I have not 
allowed my feelings to be taken captive. I have not iden- 
tified myself with the land of my adoption. I still feel my- 
self a stranger, — my heart yearns for native scenes, familiar 
faces and tones, old haunts, — for something to strike in 
.unison with the first fresh, warm gushings of the soul. 
* * * * * * * 

" Ever sincerely thine, Julia." 

[To her Brother, Dr. M. Parker.] 

"November, 1849. 

: " Dear Brother, — Little did I intend that time should 
thus have sped on, finding your letter still unanswered. 
You asked for an immediate reply, and although the gen- 
eral tone of your message was indicative of a mind care- 
burdened, yet I will not choose to take your request an un- 
meaning habitual epistolary appendage; but believe that 
you are glad to hear from me at all times. 

" Your letters are hasty and unfrequent, yet I make the 
warm feelings of my own heart the thermometer by which 
to test them. Thus tried, they overflow with the truest, 



KINDRED — FORGIVENESS — VOCATION. 163 

kindest, brotherly affection. Well do I know, brother dear, 
you love those bound to you by the strong ties of kindred 
blood. Yet it pains me to see how much in danger is every 
other feeling of being engulphed in the whirlpool of dis- 
tracting care and worldly ambition. Why not, when you 
are in possession of a competence, take life more easily, and 
not be a stranger to all it offers of the agreeable and pleas- 
ant. Allow me to urge upon you the importance of se- 
curing that gold which will pass current in eternity, as well 
as the baser metal that must be yielded at the termination 
of this transient life. 

******* 
" Your affectionate sister, Julia." 

" My dearest C, — On dit que vous etes fache contre 
moi, est il vrai ? I have done you, in good plain English, a 
great wrong ; but you are a Christian. Will you forgive 
me ? A long period of doubt and uncertainty, of which I 
entered into the details in my letter to J., is all that I can 
plead as an apology. But I have done with excuses, which 
only make a bad matter worse. During all this long silence 
I have remembered and loved you as deeply and well as if 
I had given you a thousand tangible proofs. 

"In reference to my chosen vocation, — I now think of 
relinquishing it, for a time, at least. I have been several 
years engaged in the business of teaching, and believe I 
have a particular love for the employment, having under my 
charge the most interesting class of girls imaginable ; yet I 
am truly desirous of rest. I shall leave Clarendon in a few 
weeks, — a spot that will ever be hallowed in my recollec- 
tion. Not for the natural beauties the place has, but for 
the almost chivalrous devotion these noble and generous 
people have shown me. During my sojourn here I feel I 



164 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

have added to my list of friends some names which, although 
freshly written, I trust will endure forever. I believe, if I 
may judge from many proofs, that they have loved me well, 
and most ardently have I reciprocated their generous warm- 
heartedness. I love my pupils dearly, and do most deeply 
regret leaving them. But I feel it will be much better for 
me to be at liberty a while, and visit my friends, from whom 
I have been so long separated. I propose going from here 
to Virginia, to visit my friend, Miss L., and from thence to 
visit my brother in Western Virginia. In summer make 
a northern pilgrimage to New England, my home" 

So closes the extracts for the year 1849. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

LETTER TO MISS L . — LETTER TO HER SISTER — TO MISS 

L . — ADIEU TO S. C. — VISIT TO EASTERN VIRGINIA — 

JOURNEY DOWN THE RAPPAHANNOCK — JOURNEY OVER 
THE ALLEGHANIES — SCENERY — VALLEY OF THE KANA- 
WHA — EXTREME. ILLNESS — LETTER TO MISS B . 

* Clarendon, Jan. 3, 1850. 
" How strange seemeth it to write these new symbolic 
characters of the dawning year. Have you, dearest, be- 
come familiarized with 1850 ? Ah, no ! time flies, may well 
be inscribed on our phylacteries. How year after year is 
bearing us onward to eternity's broad sea ! What changes, 
prosperous or adverse, will this year bring to us ? To me I 
know it is fraught with change, — am sure that the places 
that have known me here, will soon know me no more 
among them. Again is my unseaworthy bark to be allowed 
to drift hither and thither upon life's stormy main. Would 
that some sunny isle invited us to repose and peace, — some 
sheltered harbor offered protection from the tempest of time ! 
But let our prayer be for trust and confidence in him, who 
can say to the trials that beset us, as to the angry waves, 
6 Hitherto, and no further.' But to-night I must not philoso- 
phize. Time presses. I have just returned from a delight- 
ful trip of forty miles into the country, where I have par- 
taken of the hospitalities and festivities of the season at the 
noble mansion of ' Pine Grove.' I met most agreeable so- 



166 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

ciety from Charleston and Columbia, found the inmates 
most charming women. The other sex have not been 
abundant ; but riding, driving, walking, eating, and talking, 
have been carried on to perfection notwithstanding. Din- 
ners magnificent, — barbecues, turkeys, and what not; green 
peas from France, bananas, and like fruit, from Havana, 
and that most delectable fish (minus bones) from the coast 
of Sardinia ; maccaroni, fritters, mince-pies, and a legion 
of unmentionables, gave peculiar attraction to the philoso- 
phy of Epicurus. 

" I was sent for, and returned safely home ; and with per- 
fect weather all the while, fine company, I enjoyed the visit 
much. I am sorry to tell you I found a letter, awaiting my 
return, from my brother Horace — very sad — telling me 
of his ill-health and fear of consumption ; says he cannot 
accompany me to Virginia at this time, — that I must visit 
him before I leave. Now all this makes me sorry, and in- 
terferes with my plans much. Yet if he is so sick, it is my 
duty manifestly to go to Edgefield, hoping that I shall find 
him much better than his letter represents, and that my visit 
to you will not be long delayed. I say adieu only for a 
brief time. • 

" Ever thine, Julia." 

[To her Sister.] 

" Clarendon, January 7, 1850. 
" And so, dear sister, another year has fled forever, and 
a new one dawned upon us. To us all, I feel that the de- 
parted one has been marked by unnumbered blessings which 
call for the deepest gratitude. As a family, although 
severed far and wide, we have all been spared in life and 
health and prosperity. Let us unite our hearts, if not our 
voices, in saying, ' Bless the Lord, my soul, and forget 
not all his benefits.' " 



CLARENDON — A SHADOW AFFECTION. 167 

[To the Same, written from Edgefield, S. C] 

" I am sojourning at present with our youngest brother. 
I have left Clarendon, — that word engraven on my heart, 
with all its agreeable associations and remembrances. I 
have left such a people as I never expect to live among 
again, — so generous and kind in their devotion to me. 
Presents of every kind were lavished upon me, and they 
have quite thinned out my raven locks for mementoes." 

"Edgefield, March 8, 1850. 
" My dearest E., — Your letter came yesterday. The 
sight of that familiar hand made my heart thrill with hap- 
piness for the moment, and but for the moment only, this 
time. Some dark shadow must have rested upon the mind 
while writing, which I hope long ere this has passed away, 
leaving thee to the clear sunshine of the heart, to the exercise 
of confidence, to the warm and holy sympathy that I have so 
long and so gratefully proved. There were some thoughts 
expressed that I feel an honest and upright mind may meet 
in silence, perhaps with tears ; but with labored argument, 
never. That • I am ever trusting and faithful to one to 
whom I am under greater obligations than to those to whom 
nature has bound me, my own heart bears testimony. Yea, 
I have the witness within myself. If I have failed in any 
duty enjoined by the sincerest friendship, it has not been the 
result of the insineere, and therefore I trust it may be for- 
given. The self-sacrificing and devoted affection that I 
have so long and so well proved, has been the greenest spot 
in my life's desert, the manna in my wilderness path. That 
I have appreciated this, I believe ; that I have reciprocated 
this, as far as was possible, I confidently assert. If unlim- 
ited confidence in another is any test of true regard, I have 
ever revealed to you what has been a sealed book to every 



168 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

other mortal ; save that eye that scanneth all things, none 
has ever caught the glimpses of my inner heart that you 
have had ; to no other have I so freely unveiled myself. 
But assertions are valueless, all this is so well known now, 
as I am sure the darkness has passed away. No other 
shall ever dim the usual clear horizon of thy mind or heart 
by any act or word of mine. 

$fc $fc ^ ■3fc •Sfc $£■ & 

" Thine, in most perfect faith, 

"Julia." 

The adieu to South Carolina follows, with particu- 
lars of a visit to eastern Virginia, with the journey 
from thence to the western part of the State, where 
most of the remaining part of the year was passed, 
at the residence of her elder brother. 

[To her Sister.] 

"April 10. 

" I bade adieu to our brother's southern home, and accom- 
panied by him proceeded through mingled mud and water, 
worse a thousand fold than poor Tarn O'Shanter ever be- 
held, to Graniteville, thirty-five miles, — rain pouring and 
wind blowing ; here we passed the night. Next morning, 
rain and wind unabated, we seated ourselves in the cars for 
Charleston, a journey of one hundred miles. Without peril 
or accident to diversify the scene, we arrived safely in the 
Palmetto city, taking lodging at the Planters' Hotel, where 
we remained a few days. Continuing our journey by 
steamer to Wilmington, thence by the railroad to Peters- 
burg and Richmond ; from thence, by stage, to Tappahannock. 

Here I met again my good friend Miss L , receiving a 

most cordial welcome. 



MRS. GRAY — HER SCHOOL — STEAMER. 169 

" T is a sweet little town on the south bank of the 

Rappahannock, a noble and lordly river. I must tell you 
of the most important personage here, Mrs. Gray, in whose 
family I spent two weeks, and would gladly have extended , 
the visit to more months, as I was cordially invited to do. 
She has, for many years, been at the head of a most flourish- 
ing seminary of learning — loved and revered. A finer 
specimen of a lady is not to be met with in all Virginia. 
Her school at this time numbers fifty, and there are some 
sweet buds among them. They gave me a serenade fromi 
the garden, which was wild and sweet. May their future- 
be as cloudless as earth can know ; and the noble matron at 
their head, may her sun of life go down gloriously. Most: 
faithfully and usefully does she live. 

" But time passed on, - — the company of the way,, 
on my journey to western Virginia, required me to be 
in Baltimore, at furthest, by the 2d of May; so I must 
bid all these agreeable friends adieu too soon, or relinquish. 
the visit to our brother. The journey to Baltimore was by 
the river and bay; so repairing to the landing at the ap- 
pointed hour, along came the steamer Maryland, but stopped 
not ! This was strange ; she had never done the like before. 
Several persons like myself were waiting to go on board; 
all were amazed at her behavior. Presently a life-boat 
was let down from her side and sent ashore, with the intel- 
ligence that some of the machinery of the vessel was 
broken, and she could not stop, — but if any were very 
anxious to go on board, they could be taken out in the life- 
boat, and overtake the steamer. In such a predicament 
who do you suppose ventured their precious lives in that crazy 
boat ? Why, not one but your adventurous sister. Every- 
body else went home with trunks and baggage. I jumped 
into the life-boat with mine, and was rowed in a furious 
wind over the bounding billows, and went on board while 

15 



170 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

the steamer was under way. The machinery of the boat 
proved not badly broken, but still there was danger in case 
of further accident ; and in this steamboat I was to remain 
all night on the river and bay. Although gifted, as I think, 
with a good deal of Lady Macbeth's ' undaunted mettle/ I 
confess I did feel afraid. But God watched over me, and 
we arrived in Baltimore safely." 

We add another extract, written on board the 
Maryland, on the evening following the departure, 
with a more particular account of the entire journey 
to Western Virginia : — 

u Ok Board the Maryland, May 1, 1850. 

" My dear Friend, — You must expect my penman- 
ship and composition to be as crazy, as this same boat, with 
her broken machinery. 

" It is now three o'clock, and I need not assure you that 
time passes most heavily here in this lonely cabin, with no 
kind friend to add speed to its leaden wings. I think I can 
improve upon your quotation respecting sleep, saying, bles- 
sed is the man who invented staying at home, for I can truly 
say that if I ever wished myself on terra Jirma, it is at this 
time. But I believe in being valiant among the sons of 
men, and if I never before had any claims to courage, I 
think now I ought to be credited with a good share of the 
undaunted ; since of the many ladies who intended to be on 
board, I was the only one who ventured to trust life in a 
steamboat with broken machinery. However, I believe so 
far as I can learn, that nothing is injured but the starting 
gear ; hence the disinclination to stop when once under way. 

"But after all, I confess to you it was a trying moment 
in my life, when I deposited myself in that life-boat, and 



THE JOURNEY — DANGER — NIGHT. 171 

even now I would give my dukedom to be in your snug 
little dormitory. I believe, if I had only space to stand 
there, I would ask nothing else earthly. The idea of being 
out all night on these wide waters, under existing circum- 
stances, frightens me effectually ; ' but the sea is His, and he 
made it,' and the protecting providence of my heavenly 
Father is no less a shield and defence here than on the solid 
land. But oh, this loneliness, with none on board you know ! 
I have regretted not going yesterday, but that cannot be 
remedied now. I will make the best of my disinclination 
to leave until the last moment, and hope to arrive in safety 
in the 'Monumental City' to-morrow morning, where I shall 
be most happy to meet any face I ever saw before. 

" I have attempted a little reading, but Arabic would be 
almost as intelligible as the king's English to-day. To fix 
my mind upon any thing about me is impossible. I never 
took so exciting a trip. Every now and then the life-boats 
are lowered to take in or land passengers, and the loud, 
harsh voices of the captain and crew keep me constantly on 
the alert. Once the life-boat came near swamping, and had 
to be drawn back in a hurry. A gentleman was rowed off to 
meet his own little sail, which rose and sunk upon the waves 
like ' a thing of life.' This is a nice, comfortable boat, as 
to the interior, and better fitted up than I had supposed ; 
nothing wanting, unless it be a little more urbanity in the 
captain. He appears a rough, sea-faring man, but I con- 
fide in his seamanship and skill. 

" Night has at last thrown her mantle over the waters ; 
the winds are hushed, the waves peaceful and calm — a 
golden sunset bade the world good night. I repair to my 
den ; and waft to me, friend of my heart, one prayer for 
safety and repose. But stop, before retiring, the Maryland 
must have a scene ; albeit not quite so exciting as the one 
I was so happy as to assist in at T . The boat was 



172 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

lowered at Merry Point, and after much delay, for she is 
not very manageable, a quality of her sex you know, several 
Merry Pointers came on board, whom I was right glad to 
see, having a plenty of cabin room for passengers. Among 
the bevy was a woman and her lord. She, by some means, 
learned that the machinery was broken, on which she 
became frantic to go off again. Her husband remonstrated 
as long as that sort of a thing was possible, assuring her 
there was no danger ; then he commanded her imperatively 
to take off her bonnet and go down stairs. But the woman 
did not 6 obey ; ' the struggle was long, but she won the 
laurels at last, and off they went, a gentle riddance to the 
rest of us, — for she had had a dream a few nights before 
that she was taking a steamboat trip, and the vessel was 
lost, and a great deal more about her mother's getting letters 
sealed with black, etc. Perhaps she was the Jonas of the 
crew, and left good fortune behind. It always does me 
so much good to witness a woman's victory, even if the 
cause is not particularly praiseworthy. 

" Morning, five o'clock. — Good angels have watched 
over us, and we are still going bravely on our way. Have 
slept quite tolerably ; no sickness, and the bay to-day is 
smoother than the river yesterday. There are three young 
girls on board who are taking their first trip on the water. 
They are, as you may know, delightfully uninitiated in the 
minutia of a steamboat, and I take much pleasure in giving 
them any information I may have at command. The 
woman of ill-omen, who returned to her home last night, 
frightened them very much, and they would also have 
abandoned their trip, but did not carry their point. 

" It is a lovely morning, a gentle breeze, and the Mary- 
land careers over the waters most gallantly. But fast as 
she goes my soul sails slowly. I would fondly bend a pin- 
ion back to the warm hearts I have so reluctantly left 



MESSAGES — BOOKS — HOTEL. 173 

behind. This little visit will be embalmed in my memory for 
aye, for I assure you no two weeks of my life have passed 
more charmingly. Mrs. Gray I love as some friend of 
years, and I wish I were the possessor of as much intrinsic 
worth. Remember me to her most cordially, and also to all 
the young ' insurgents,' especially to those with whom I 

became most acquainted. Tell Miss E W that I 

feel quite flattered by the last kiss and its sweet predeces- 
sors, when I remember that she withheld them from a more 

kiss-inspiring object, and say to Miss L Y , that 

if I find her in Philadelphia, I shall seize and carry her off 
to New England. I have become more attached than I 
supposed possible in so short a time to many of the young 
ladies, and shall not soon forget their kind attentions to me. 
" What stupid books you have given me to read. To 
get on with them is very much like walking through the 
sand at your wharf, slow, laborious, and troublesome. One 
has so much time on these trips, I w r ould give a vast deal 
for Poe's volumes, or Macaulay's Essays. But I expect it 
may be my own fault that I cannot get interested in these 
books, I have read so little lately." 

" Baltimore, 2 o'clock. 
"My dear Friend. — I thank heaven most sincerely 
for my safe arrival at Barnum's Hotel, where I learn that 
my party has been in waiting for me some time. I have 
had an unusually long trip, the steamer having been due 
since early morning ; but it has been prosperous, although 
attended with no little anxiety. We are to pursue our 
journey to-morrow r , — an account shall be transferred in 
due time. Write me on reception of this, to Kanawha C. 

H. M J must write also. I fancy her epistolary 

sketches, if as graphic as her verbal ones, must be delight- 
ful. She is excellent in inspiring that laughter that Solo- 
15* 



174 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

mon recommends. I must close this long, badly manufac- 
tured epistle, which I know will be excused, under the cir- 
cumstances. Again wishing much love to all I have left 
behind, be assured I am yours. 

" Most truly and sincerely, Julia." 

The journey continued — arrival in western Vir- 
ginia, — scenery, — incidents of the way. 

"Kanawha C. H., May 10, 1850. 

" My best Friend. — Although I am deposited really 
;and truly, so far as my senses are concerned, safely on the 
sbanks of the great Kanawha, in the mansion of Dr. M. Par- 
ser, yet I wish, you having no objection, to commence my 
blottings by the way, where my last hieroglyphical missive 
tended, namely, at Baltimore. 

" When I sealed my intelligencer, I had not seen his high 

•mightiness and knight of the saddle-bags, Dr. A T ; 

tout in the fulness of time he was ushered into my presence, 
-and we introduced ourselves each to the other, as if we had 
never met before. Indeed, I should not have known him 
from any other son of Adam. Such are the changes of a 
few brief years. He was most truly cordial, making many 
inquiries for you, expressing a thousand regrets that he had 

not been to visit T . He presented to me Mr. and Mrs. 

D , the newly matched, in whose company I was to find 

myself en voygeant. Mrs. D , the ci-devant L 

B , is a nice, talkative, agreeable little woman, and her 

husband really believes that since the days of Eve, so fine a 
feminine specimen has not appeared, and of course showed 
himself a most lover-like husband. Dear me, what a pity 
that married life could not all be one honey-moon ! There 
would be a trifle more of poetry in it than usually happens. 
But a truce to dissertations. We left Baltimore on Friday 



MRS. PHELPS'S SCHOOL — CUMBERLAND. 175 

morning in the cars, passing through Harper's Ferry, so re- 
nowned for its miracles of fine scenery and views which a 
painter loves. Not far from here, and perched on a lofty 
bill, is Mrs. Phelps's young ladies' manufactory. The place 
is called Ellicott's Mills ; a more eligible spot for the pur- 
pose could not have been selected. Her school is renowned 
in these parts, and seems in a most prosperous condition. 
We reached Cumberland, the railroad terminus, the same 
evening, and as the party all complained of the w r ear and 
tear of travel, it was deemed advisable, by the majority, to 
rest until the next morning, instead of staging it all night. 
So like the aristocratic caste, that journey for pleasure, not 
business, we bestowed ourselves comfortably by a nice coal 
fire, and i took our ease in our inn.' Have you any idea what 

a great thoroughfare this same Cumberland is ? A 

says, without fact stretching, that five hundred stages meet 
there from the various points ! Now I did not see half that 
number ; but I assure you I saw whole processions of them 
dashing past the hotel, all crowded like a stuffed pincushion, 
drawn by four and six matched horses, giving an idea by 
their number, speed, and appointments, of some great occa- 
sion that all the world was coming together to see. At this 
point begins the great National Road, so largely due to the 
genius and perseverance of Henry Clay, — and a splendid 
thing it is. Broad, macadamized, stretching through a sec- 
tion of country whose natural beauty and sublimity has 
probably no parallel in this new world of nature's marvels. 
Thronged by long lines of crowded stage-coaches, altogether 
I consider it the most interesting strip of journeying I have 
ever taken. At four o'clock, the following evening, w r e were 
en route for Brownsville, seventy miles distant, with the sad 
prospect before us of catching what small favors we could 
from Morpheus for the next sixteen hours, on now and then 
a shoulder for a downy pillow. Our little party, plus three 



176 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

gentlemen, stuffed out the pincushion, and all in excellent 
humor. One middle-aged man, who showed himself very 
intelligent, and spiced with the facetious, sat opposite 

A . The latter was in the act of tying his hat upon the 

stage roof, when the furious driver dashed over a huge rock, 

or into a deep mud hole and threw A plump into the 

stranger's face, sans ceremonie, to the great detriment of his 

facial organs. A , in his courteous way, patted him on 

his cheek, and made a handsome apology ; this introduced 
them to each other, and they were the best of friends thence- 
forward. 

" You and I have seen the Yerd Mountains, and the fine 
Hudson River scenery, and all that New England has most 
delectable in the way of the sublime ; and now let me tell 
you that the Alleghanies have triumphed gloriously. These 
grand old hills forcibly reminded me of the descriptions I 
have read of the feudal fortresses of the Rhine. They have a 
castellated aspect, that a slight illusion of the imagination 
could readily metamorphose into gloomy turrets, bastions, 
and other et cetera of an antique baronial fortress ; and as 
the daylight paled, and the clouds settled heavily upon their 
summits, I could well fancy each tree an armed retainer, 
ready to make a descent from the lofty battlements. As 
the night deepened, each coach of our procession, twelve in 
number, was lighted, and could you have been stationed at 
any point of the route, and seen us rattling past, you would 
have said it equalled any political torch-light getting up ! 
But alas ! ' this clay will sink its spark immortal ; ' and sure 
am I it never had more to combat than the joltings and 
bouncings of that night's journey. Fine scenery, old castles, 
and all that soon yielded to leaden eyelids ; and oh for some 
hook whereon to hang a nap, was the one earthly wish ! 
Carpet-bag, shawl, seat, all tried vainly, till a very honest- 
faced fellow, who sat beside me, begged me to lean on his 



SCENERY — PITTSBURG — FORT DU QUESNE. 177 

shoulder. I would gladly have declined ; but the intention 
seemed so kindly made, and A \s advice to do so, com- 
ing in, I could not refuse without some false delicacy. So I 
pillowed myself there, and slept I know not how long. I 
was really vastly obliged, and thanked him most cordially. 

A wished to do me this favor, but was obliged to yield 

his seat to one who was made sick by riding backward. 
After being bruised, until a thousand bruises became all one 
bruise, and I felt, I fancy, as the fool did who, in Solomon's 
time, was brayed in a mortar until his foolishness left him. 
We arrived in Brownsville, where we took a steamer for 
Pittsburg. 

" Pittsburg is a great city, apparently as large as Boston ; 
with a situation for internal trade such as few cities in this 
country enjoy. Our hotel was opposite the levee, where 
steamers and canal-boats stretched in a line, as far as the 
eye could reach ; and the whole thronged by the busiest 
population imaginable. But if you would like to be be- 
grimmed with coal-dust, smoke, and cinders, — if you would 
like to see every thing you touch leave your hands of the 
hue of a kitchen scullion's, — if you would wish to have it 
doubtful whether you belonged to the black or brown race, 
— if you would choose to inhale smoke and coal-dust 
instead of the usual compound of oxygen and nitrogen, — if 
you would admire to see every thing you put on go speedily 
into mourning, without an apropos occasion, — in fine, if 
you would eat, drink, and wear coal-dust, then go to Pitts- 
burg, and all these magnificent desires would be realized. 
To enjoy all this, we staid two days, when we went on board 
the Hibernia, for Point Pleasant. As we got under way 
we had a fine view of the two rivers, in their nuptial union, 
at the point of old Fort Du Quesne ; then we launched out 
into the Ohio, where you anticipated accident ; but the ' all 
is well' of heavenly protection, hovered like an angel 



178 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

above our boat, and clanger kept aloof; yes, from us, but 
not from others. Two shocking disasters have just occurred 
on this river. The conflagration of the steamer Belle, and 
the bursting of the boilers of another ; by both a large num- 
ber of lives were lost, in a most distressing manner. The 
Ohio is the most monotonous river in the world. I saw it 
at high water, and in the most turbid state. Its banks are 
high, barren, treeless bluffs; w T ith now r and then a naked, 
unhomelike looking house, squatted down by its side. Not 
a solitary spot did I see where I should like to say, ' there 
stands my home ! ' The western steamers are long, drawn 
out things, very narrow, reminding one of a stick of candy. 
They are not at all elegant compared with those of the Hud- 
son, but comfortable enough. We reached Point Pleasant 
the day following our departure from Pittsburg, where we 
left the Ohio steamer, and waited for a Kanawha boat. 
She did not make her appearance until four o'clock the next 
morning, when we were roused up. Half-dressed, and 
every thing hanging, I waded through the mud, with the 
rest of the party, and got on board, not more than half 
awake. Up this charming little river to Charleston is 
not far, but delightful. The banks are of the Wissahickon 
type, picturesque, wild, and romantic. Plenty of Kana- 
whaians on board. Learned one nice item of intelligence, — 
Dr. Parker and lady absent from home ! gone to the Queen 
City of the West, to attend a medical convention. 

" One o'clock, Charleston in view, — bade the newly 

matched 'good-by,' — they going on to the Salines. A 

took me to the deserted home, summoned the servants, or- 
dered fires and good cheer, then rejoined his party, — his 
home six miles above. 

" Well, I have taken possession in full, — am, pro tern, 
lady of the castle ; all is in handsome style and nice order. 
The servants admirably trained. Lucy, the cook, seems 



ARRIVAL — REMEMBRANCES — CLIMATE. 179 

to have inexhaustible resources at command, and I sit down 
in solitary majesty, like some old dowager, three times a 
day, to a repast that does her credit. But her skill is not 
potent enough to inspire an appetite, and I am scarcely 
more than a looker-on in Venice. This journey has made 
me into some old ruin ; and never in my life felt I so little 
vitality. But I hope M. will renovate me ; indeed, I wait 
his return impatiently. I have been here two days, and 
have wished to write before, but really have not felt equal 
to the effort. 

" This is a pleasant residence. The river flows right be- 
fore my window, with green-wooded hills beyond ; and were 
it not that the view is partially obscured by a row of stores 
beyond, it would be magnificent. Steamboats and other 
craft go up and down continually, and all has a lively, ani- 
mated aspect. Of the rest of the town I know nothing. 
M. and H. are expected to-morrow, and I think they will 
be surprised to find their home swept, garnished, and occu- 
pied. They had despaired of my visit, we were so long in 
coming. . . • 

" Well, I am sorry that I have occupied so much space 
with the first person, leaving so little for the second. But 
how are you all in T ? I would gladly have length- 
ened my visit with your kind and polite hostess, with 
m 9 amie, and the lively Marie, and the dear girls. Do give 
my best love to all the inmates of the house ; distribute it 
judiciously. Some to all, and a great deal to some. Com- 
prenez vous ? Write soon and definitely. Adieu. 

" Ever thine, Julia." 

The last month of spring and first of summer 
found Miss Parker very happy in the home of her 
brother, from whom she had been separated some 
years. But the climate of the' Kanawha valley 



180 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

seemed adverse from the time of her first arrival, — 
her health less firm. Early in July, from a slight 
exposure, a most alarming illness resulted, and al- 
though there was an apparent recovery, yet her con- 
stitution had received such a shock, as could not 
again be withstood. The following extracts are ex- 
pressive of what she suffered, and the result of this 
near approach of death upon her views and feelings. 

[To her Sister.] 

"Kanawha, October, 1850. 
"My dear Sister, — -You have been informed before 
that I have been very sick, even to the gates of death ; 
but have arisen again, because ' the Lord sustained me.' I 
was confined to my bed by a raging fever several weeks ; 
during a portion of the time there seemed for me almost no 
hope of life. I know now what it is to look eternity in the 
face, and to prepare, as far as in my power, to die. I know 
what it is to see every thought, word, and action in that 
searching light, so unlike the glare of this world. And al- 
though I may consider it, in some respects, the severest 
affliction of my life, yet I firmly believe that I needed the 
chastening, and that my best good will result from it. I am 
purposed, and will try, by the grace of God, to lead a more 
righteous life. But it is with alarm at my own weakness, 
that I find with returning health, returning influence of this 
world. Oh, my sister, pray for me, and never allow me to 
forget for a moment, i if the Lord had not been on my side, 
the deep waters had gone over my soul ! ' Thank him with 
me, thank him for me, for I cannot feel half enough grati- 
tude. Encourage me in that path of ardent piety from 
which I wish never to swerve. And now let me tell you, 
that nothing I ever had in possession, nothing I ever hope 



CLIMATE — IMPROVED HEALTH. 181 

to enjoy, but I would have relinquished to have found you, 
the angel of my sick room ; when the burning lava coursed 
madly through my veins, oh, that I could have felt your 
hand upon my brow ! But let me bear glad testimony to 
my brother's untiring devotion to me. While I was so ill, 
he gave up his business and attended at my bed-side, both 
night and day, administering all my medicines with his own 
hand. I shall ever owe him a debt of warmest, tenderest 
gratitude. 

" I cannot abide this climate, neither dare trust myself in 
New England, for this coming winter, and have determined 
to return to Eastern Virginia, to remain with my friend 
until next summer, when we shall return North together." 

[To the Same.] 

" Tappahannock, November, 1850. 

" Yes, safely moored, — health improved, — mind at ease 
in this new resting-place. The adieus are all over. The 
chamber of disease and suffering abandoned. Trunks un- 
packed, and after a long journey, commune with thee from 
another part of the 'Old Dominion.' Yes, I am again at 
rest, and the adverb, quietly, which you seem to hold in such 
estimation, broods like some gentle dove around me. With 
many regrets I bade my brother good-by, and abandoned 
myself to the tender mercies of the stage, steamboat, and 
car again. The steamboat trip down the Chesapeake occu- 
pied some thirty hours, and such a time I never again wish 
to experience. I did most firmly resolve, if once more an 
inhabitant of terra flrma, no earthly consideration should 
again lead me to trust myself to the pitiless sea. But we 
feel more gratitude for safety after danger, than in perpetuaL 
security." 

16 



182 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

[To Miss B -.] 

" Tappahannock, December 25, 1850. 

" My dear N., — Christmas shall not pass until I have 
paid my long-promised devoirs to my fondly loved friend. 
So while I hold on to its skirt with one hand, with the other 
I am going to trace out cabalistic characters for your eye 
alone. Be it known, then, that I write you to-day, not be- 
cause a common friend of ours has told me I ought to write 
you, but simply and entirely because I wish to do it for my own 
sake and no one's else. This may be quite selfish, but this time 
I am resolved to please myself. Now sit down here by my 
side, and let me take your hand and talk with you just as I 
think and feel. How glad I am to be with you again ! 
You have changed a trifle since I last saw you, — your face 
has a shade of sadness, or rather thoughtfulness. But your 
heart, — draw aside the curtain, if you please, and let me look 
therein. Ah, there is no change here ; still as young, fresh, 
and fair as when I first erected my statue in one of its 
niches. Time has no dominion here, — years may pass, but 
they shall not leave their furrows on our hearts, dearest. 

" Another year has smoothed down his pinions, and is 
about trying their strength to bear him to the land of the 
mighty past, to join there his departed kindred. Will he tell 
a good account of us, my friend ? how has it gone with thee ? 
Thou, too, hast known sickness and sadness, as well as my- 
self, and perchance the closing of another of time's pages finds 

us both more perfect through suffering. My dear N , 

this has been a year of peculiar trials, as well as peculiar 
joys. It has brought me sore chastisement from my Father's 
hand, in sickness almost unto death. It has stripped off the 
illusion from things earthly, and shown them to me in their 
true, inherent value, wherein is nothingness and vanity. It 
has told me, in a most solemn voice, of the necessity of be- 
ing always ready, and made me feel that a soul washed, and 



RESOLUTIONS — NOTE — VIOLETS. 183 

sanctified, and made meet for heaven, for a glorious here- 
after, is the one worthy object of pursuit. It has made me 
resolve, I trust sincerely, to live no longer to myself, but to 
Him who died and rose again. Blessed be God, it has seen 
me rise again from a sick bed, to take part in the particu- 
larities of existence. And for what have I been almost 
miraculously spared ? Is it not that I may glorify God, and 
serve him with a holier and purer zeal ? Oh pray, my 
dearest one, that it may be thus improved, and my soul's 
best interest advanced by the trial of this fiery furnace. 

" My dear, how much I have thought of you since you 
have been an invalid, and wished most ardently that so 
great a distance did not divide us. Our friend has told me 
all about you. Indeed, I seem to know all that relates to 
you, as if I had been an inmate of your chamber of peace. 
I do not know that we shall ever meet again, amid the 
changes and chances of life, — but I assure you that it is 
one of the dearest w T ishes of my heart. I expect to visit 
New England in a few months, and may we not hope to be 
happy together. 

"Your sweet little note, with the embalmed violets, I re- 
ceived, and long ere this you merited a warm acknowledg- 
ment. But until lately I have spared pen and paper to all 
my friends, although my thoughts have been present with 
them. And now, friend of mine, accept the heart-warm 
wish and prayer that this glad anniversary may find you in 
health and happiness, and in the smile of our father's coun- 
tenance. God bless and keep you, ' as the apple of his eye,' 
bestowing on you all desired gifts. 

7f: $£• •%: -5F - ■3|£ 3£ -flfr 

" Believe me ever thine own true friend, 

" Julia." 

So closes the year 1850, marked indeed " by pecu- 
liar trials, as well as by peculiar joys." . 



CHAPTER XV. 

IMPROVED HEALTH — OCCUPATION — IMPRESSIONS OF DEATH* 

— RETURN HOME — LETTER TO MISS L— . — MARRIAGE 

— "FAREWELL TO ACWORTH " — RETURN TO SOUTH CARO- 
LINA — LETTER ON THE JOURNEY — ARRIVAL AT HER NEW 
HOME —SICKNESS — DEATH. 

The year 1851 opens with our friend in improved 
and improving health. Her pen was resumed again? 
as the medium of agreeable and valued intercourse 
with a large circle of admiring friends, offering, too, an 
occasional contribution to the current literature of 
the day. But a larger portion of time was spent in 
the duties of her vocation. In all this varied occu- 
pation the utmost earnestness was manifested, and 
life seemed to have acquired new value, as present- 
ing an enlarged opportunity for usefulness ; and above 
all, as affording a longer season for preparation, be- 
fore entrance upon the unseen and eternal. Death 
had been viewed as very near, and the reprieve 
granted, seemed to awaken profound gratitude. 
The study of the Holy Scriptures, the earnest 
exercises of devotion, spoke a mind deeply pene- 
trated with the excellence and superiority of divine 
things. Although the promise of life and health 



THE HOLY SCRIPTURES DEATH. 185 

had at no period been more flattering than now, yet 
no one subject was so often introduced as that of 
death, — not in abstract comment, but as something 
to be met as an event both certain and near. It 
was the chosen topic, whether abroad, surrounded 
by the charms of external nature, or in the recesses 
of retirement ; in the occupation of the day, or the 
stillness of the night; — the listening ear of friend- 
ship heard it oftener than all others. There was 
fearfulness frequently expressed of the struggle be- 
tween the material and immaterial, a dread of relin- 
quishing the seen for the unseen, the known for the 
unknown ; but over all these sad pictures fell the 
light of a holy faith, a deep and abiding trust in the 
Father of spirits. Death, however fearful to mere 
shrinking humanity, was the gate to a certain and 
happy immortality. " God manifest in the flesh," 
had robbed death of its sting, the grave of its 
victory. We recall these conversations as the fore- 
shadowing of what was shortly to be experienced ; 
as the merciful preparation vouchsafed by indulgent 
Heaven for meeting the last foe, for strength slowly 
but surely gained, to triumph in the last struggle. 
But we abstain from undue anticipation. The cur- 
rent of life each day flows seemingly stronger; 
much remains unwritten that belongs to the earthly 
record. 

The winter,, the spring, and the first of the sum- 
mer of this year were passed in Virginia, but the 
letters from which we make most of the fol- 
lowing extracts, are written from her early home. 
They breathe of glad meetings of the household 

16* 



186 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

band, of the fine scenery, of purest enjoyment, 
of affectionate devotion, of cherished friendships, 
and of future hopes, not iinmingled with anxiety. 
So many topics directly personal are interspersed 
that the extracts which remain to be presented are 
jnore brief than the preceding from her correspond- 
ence. 

[To Miss L .] 

" Acworth, August, 1851. 

""My best Friend, — With more leisure and quiet to 
pay my respects to you, I shall enjoy most truly the oppor- 
tunity. Our parting, at the close of a long journey, was as 
unceremonious and unsatisfactory, as the hurry of steam 
.could make it. My foot had scarcely touched the soil of my 
native State, when I turned to look at least, one more fond 
adieu, but with restless speed, you had been borne from 
view. But it will be long, I hope, ere the rush of steam 
will reach me in my present fastness ; for I write you from 
tthe dear old homestead, and never did it seem more dear, 
more beautiful than now. Could you only have accompa- 
nied me here, nothing would be wanting to my enjoyment. 
I might have taken you by force, in defiance of steam, had I 
>known the aid that could have been quickly summoned, at 
the point where we parted. Two vehicles were in waiting 
.for my arrival, one for my earthly goods, the other for my 
precious person, and after the rain, which came up so furi- 
ously in honor of my return had subsided, I commenced my 

pilgrimage to the dear old haunt where I found L in 

all the excitement of expectation for a sight of her long ab- 
sent southern sister. I need not tell you how happy we all 
were. . . . 

" Every thing here looks as it did any number of years 
ago, save that I think I never saw our charming village 
and country look so lovely before. I have always regarded 



ACWORTH — SUNSHINE — SHOWERS. 187 

Acworth as a delightful Auburn-like village. As for the 
scenery around, it is unsurpassed from the ocean lakes to 
the most southern limit of our country. As I stand at my 
vine-curtained door, the panorama that spreads out before 
me is one of picturesque and most romantic beauty ; such a 
living green as every thing wears, I have seen nowhere 
this season. Sunshine and showers must have united their 
magic to effect such loveliness. The maple grove, my 
mother's grave, the orchard, the garden, have all been 
visited. The familiar look that each object wears at times 
oppresses me, — at others weaves such an illusion around 
my memory, that I forget time and change have laid their 
hands upon me, — forget even that I am no more a child, 
roaming among old haunts with the book of life's experience 
all unconned. All at home seem to be enjoying my visit 

vastly. I believe L is as happy as one can be ; as for 

myself, save a few distressful thoughts that will come, I 
drink happiness as from a fountain. 

" To meet my family and friends again after so long an 
absence, after many wanderings, after much bodily suffering 
and many anxieties, is no ordinary blessing; and one for 
which I hope I do feel profound gratitude to the Being 
who has thus far guided, protected, and delivered me. 
Surely goodness and mercy have followed me, and I will 
bless God with my heart forever. 

******* 

" And now when will you present yourself at our hos- 
pitable board ? I shall certainly expect you soon, with our 
kind friend, as promised. 

" Ever yours, Julia." 

[To Miss M , of Philadelphia.] 

September 1, 1851. 

" I had thought, my dear C , to have sent you a few 

random shots from off the granite hills long ago, but my 



188 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

pen takes long siestas these days, deputizing the unruly 
member to attend to all affairs. But as you are out of its 
reach, I have concluded to use my pen as the only one that 
can now talk with you as friend with friend. These home 
visits are bad things for expecting correspondents. The 
novelty refuses to wear off. Reading, walking, gazing with 
eye untired upon the delectable landscape that is spread 
out in loveliness beyond its utmost ken, — revisiting old 
haunts, — raking open the ashes of by-gone remembrances, 
— shaking hands with the friends of other days, — and, 
above all, saying so much upon what I have seen and 
heard since last among them, — can you not understand why 
I find no time for any thing I ought to do ? . . . 

" And my kind friend, let me assure you, that never has 
the sentiment of sincere thankfulness so taken possession of 
my heart as now. I am once more permitted to see the 
home of my childhood and youth, and to find it less changed 
than many another near me ; to meet in health those who 
linger amid its sacred precincts, all in peace and pros- 
perity. My dear C , I cannot tell you how precious 

these days are to me, how covetous I am of them, even as 
a miser of his gold. How I rejoice when c the wings of the 
morning' hover above my window, and the voice of the 
birds call me up to new life and enjoyment ; and again, 
how I regret, as the evening closes, that another day has gone 
to return no more. Alas, for the wheels of time, they bear 
us away from our joys, leaving instead of fresh blooming 
roses, only dried specimens for memory's herbarium ! A 
happier summer than this one that has just bidden us adieu, 
I have never spent, and perhaps shall never spend again. 
But should it be so, I shall still bless God for this, and make 
it the theme of my grateful heart. 

******* 
" Ever thine, sincerely, J. A. Parker." 



THE FUTURE — AFFLICTION. 189 

The future is wisely shut from view, that the be- 
neficence of the present prove not a valueless gift. 
*Thy " happiest summer" and thy last on earth ! Be- 
fore another came, rich in manifold beauty — charm- 
ing even as this — thy spirit had sought the home 
of beauty and changeless joy ; and we gather, with 
heavy heart, these roses of earth, for the " Herbarium " 
of thy fond and faithful " memory." 

[To Ms L .] 

" Acworth, September 5, 1851. 

" Truly, my best friend, I did think I would wait, before 
writing you, until I had something of interest or importance 
to communicate. Do you think a letter should ever start 
on its way without the consciousness that it bears either 
something to comfort and console, to amuse and gladden, or 
to convey news ? But really nothing will be forthcoming, 
and lest you should think, with Tupper, that ' the slow 
answer denoteth a cooling friend,' I feel myself obliged to 
give you a gentle pull backward from such a conclusion. 
Indeed, my dear friend, if possible, I love you more ardently 
when absent in the body, than when present, for then mem- 
ory has her perfect work. 

" All you have ever been to me since first we met, rises 
in truer, deeper picture before me ; when alone, or left to my 
own train of thought, there is no one thing I love more to 
dwell upon than the faithfulness and constancy of your 
friendship. How tenderly you have nursed me in sickness, 
— how kind and affectionate at all times. And, my friend, 
I love much to think of this now that we are separated, per- 
haps to be little more together on earth, although I would 
fain hope better things. But whether present or absent, 
my holiest affections will ever be with you ; and all you 
have proved yourself of the true and tried friend will wear 



190 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

deeper and deeper channels in recollection, as I find myself 
further away, and surrounded by others whose hearts can- 
not be less selfish. But come to me, my friend, the earliest 
day you can leave home. 

" The weather, after sundry very unhandsome specimens 
for August, has settled down into perfect loveliness. A day 
so bright and glorious, a sky so cloudless and serene, 
an air so sweet and pure, never regaled my senses as in this 
one of early autumn. 

" I have been to the grove to haunt its bowers of mem- 
ories old, and to read there ' Proverbial Philosophy.' Were 
you here I should spend all my time in the open air. The 
nights, too, are becoming so heavenly ; — the spirit of beauty 
is abroad everywhere. How sorry I was last night to shut 
the door upon the delicious moonlight. It seemed like 
excluding angel visitants. Our Father's love is everywhere ; 
it has garnished the earth in such beauty. Earth would be 
Eden still, were it not for the curse, the unrest born of 
gfin," 

We have given the preceding extracts from the 
correspondence of this year. From the materials 
offered, these might be greatly multipled ; but with- 
out further addition for the present, we notice only 
the general features of the entire correspondence of 
this period. It is especially marked by an admiration 
very enthusiastic, for the beautiful and grand in the 
scenery of her native State, — by the expressions 
of a heart most fond and truthful in its warm affec- 
tions, — by a calm and perfect trust in heaven, and 
gratitude for its bountiful gifts. All these topics, 
full of deep interest, are expressed in winning dic- 
tion, in graceful and charming elegance. 



MARRIAGE — NEW HOME — SICKNESS. 191 

The scenes amid which she lingered, so endeared 
by fond memories and happy associations, were to 
be exchanged for others. The affections so strong 
for home and early friends were permitted to experi- 
ence extension, and find another resting-place under 
sunnier skies than those which had canopied her early 
years. Late in the autumn of this year, Miss Parker 
was united in marriage to J. Dyson, Esq., of Claren- 
don, South Carolina, a gentleman of polished sense, 
extensive acquirements, and high social position. 

Upon the consummation of this event, the new 
home was sought ; but the promise of long years of 
usefulness and domestic felicity were not to be real- 
ized. The appointments of Heaven were otherwise. 
A severe cold contracted just before leaving Charles- 
ton, terminated in the disease with which she had 
previously been threatened, towards which there was 
no doubt a constitutional susceptibility. Her " fare- 
well" to her native place, a few extracts from the 
limited correspondence of the few months of sickness 
and bodily suffering, and the history from her own pen 
is complete. 

The closing scene, so triumphant, is given in the 
words of him to whom she had pledged a faith 
changeless unto death ; the one alone of all those 
she had most loved, who was permitted to wait at 
the bedside of the dying, to hear the last words, and 
mark the last change. Of all trials that attend this 
changeful, fearful life, we can picture none more sad 
and touching, than to become the chronicler of hopes 
so unexpectedly blighted, to record the messages of 
the dying with the same pen that had so recently 



192 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

responded to congratulations offered for promised 
life and happiness ; but done with so much of true 
acquiescence to the holy will of Heaven, with such 
true fidelity to the dying, with such feeling and sym- 
pathy for the living, it speaks a nobility of heart and 
Christian excellence of rare degree. 

The article here introduced was an offering to a 
literary association of her native town ; some tribute 
from her pen being asked, the following was re- 
turned : — 

"A FAREWELL TO ACWOETH. 

" Farewell ! This is the saddest of words in the language 
of earth — for heaven, in its celestial thought medium, has 
no such term ! There, the blest meet, — but here below, 
partings must be known and endured, let them rend the 
heart-fibres as they may, and lacerate the most delicate sen- 
sibilities of the soul. Trying as they may be under ordi- 
nary circumstances, how much more so, when we bid adieu 
to the home of our youth, and our beloved father-land ! 
Then it is that memory, like the vasty deep, with all its 
treasures, seems bidden 'to give up its dead/ 

" Thoughts, feelings, affections, family and social relations, 
fond associations of old haunts and dear familiar scenes, all 
come rushing up at the sound of the parting word, till the 
very heart lies crushed and broken, and tears, thick and 
fast, alone denote the overflowing of the soul ! 

" But blessed be God, I have again, under happy circum- 
stances, been permitted to revisit the land of my birth, 
where dwell my kindred, and beneath whose green turf 
reposes the precious dust of those who have already i entered 
into their rest.' I have seen it in its summer loveliness, in its 
autumnal glory, and in its now wintry desolation. I found it 



NEW HOME — KIND HEARTS — FATHER-LAND. 193 

fresh as Eden, in its surpassing greenness and beauty ; with 
its ' everlasting hills ' reposing in the mellowed radiance of 
its summer skies. I have seen its glorious forests put on 
their gorgeous livery, till every leaf and every tree seemed 
rainbowed with a thousand hues from the spirit of beauty's 
own treasury. 

" But, alas ! Ichabod is written on all, for the glory thereof 
has departed. The proud garniture of the trees now rustles 
beneath the footsteps, and they lean their naked tracery 
against a cold sky, and seem shivering in the northern blast. 
The birds, that poured forth their wild anthems from their 
leafy homes, have migrated to brighter lands, till the desola- 
tion of an almost arctic winter shall have passed. Like a 
bird of passage, I too seek a summer clime. My waiting 
home reposes beneath the shade of the orange trees, and a 
sky more soft and fair than this. Hearts too, warm and, 
generous as their own genial clime, beat in that southern 
land. Yet, still, it is the land of the stranger ! 

"Nature, manners, customs, ©social life, all wear an un- 
familiar aspect, and remind me, but too forcibly, that many 
a weary league divides it from the land of my puritan an- 
cestors, and from the institutions they have so nobly be- 
queathed to us. Happy I hope to be ! yet happier far, 
could I say with the Shunamite of old, ' I dwell among 
mine own people.' Yet, if Providence has ordained it thus, 
may I not hope that the prayers and blessings of those with 
whom I have been so long familiar will follow me whither- 
soever I ?o ? Often will my thoughts revert to all I have 
left, to all that my heart holds dear and sacred in recollec- 
tion ; and whatever of happiness I may find in the far-off 
home I seek, I shall still indulge the fond hope that I may 
again revisit my own New England, — my heart's best 
father-land ! " 

17 



194 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

[Extracts from Letters written during the Journey.] 

"New York, November 7, 1851. 
" My dearest Friend, — I am really here in Gotham, 
and were my writing materials at hand, would send you a 
long letter ; as it is, it will require all your love to pardon 
the bad qualities of this. I left home, friends, and father- 
land, on the 13th instant. Yes, the solemn words have been 
spoken, heart pledged to heart, adieus exchanged. You ask 
how I passed through all this ? I confess that such emo- 
tions rushed upon the soul as find in words but dim portrait- 
ure. The past with its powerful pleadings, the future so 
urging its promises, — its hopes, not unmingled with fears, for 
a time robbed the then present almost of consciousness. 
But I am now myself again,, disposed to look upon life with 
a quiet, tranquil eye, to indulge only wellgrounded hopes. 
I would enter upon the duties of my new station with fidel- 
ity and tender interest, and pursue them, animated by that 
delicate and true affection, that makes home the heart's 

fond resting-place 

" Most faithfully yours, Julia." 

"Clarendon, November 27, 1851. 

" My dearest Friend, — To write you on the wing was 
impossible ; and as my flight was not a very rapid one, J 
hope you will pardon what may seem great delay in writing. 
But now I am safely anchored, I shall hope often to com- 
mune with thee, my cherished friend. .... 

" I left New York soon after my last was written, and pro- 
ceeded directly to Baltimore, where we spent a short time ; 
thence to Washington. At this place I found much to inter- 
est ; the hotel superb, and there was much to be seen. 
Spent much of the time there, at the patent office, where are 
collected curiosities from all parts of the world. The busts 



PATENT OFFICE — JOURNEY TO CHARLESTON. 195 

and statues of our great men collected there, are a study by 
themselves. Then there are other paintings of great interest, 
besides wonders brought back by the exploring expeditions, 
that are extremely curious ; such as native cloth, female 
costume, ornaments, domestic and war implements from the 
islands of the South Seas. There are mammoth bones, 
fossils, stuffed animals, birds and reptiles, beautiful corals, 
ores from every land, and precious stones in abundance. 
Here you may see the military dress of Washington, his 
camp equipage, and table arrangements at home. Here is 
Franklin's old printing-press ; the original ' Declaration ; ' 
all treaties made with foreign powers ; curious medals, and 
things innumerable,, which a visit alone can reveal. The 
patent office is a splendid building, and altogether one of 
the most interesting things to be seen at the capitol of this 
great American nation 

" We had a long, rough, but safe passage to Charleston, 
where we spent several days very pleasantly, staying a part 

of the time at the hotel, a part at Dr. G 's mansion, one 

of the most splendid and sumptuous, perhaps, in this city. 
His library occupies two large rooms, and contains every 
thing one can desire in the way of books. Saw there Audo- 
bon's great work on ornithology, in four immense volumes ; 
you know my estimate of this work. Mrs. G 's drawing- 
room is gorgeous, and contains many rare things from differ- 
ent parts of Europe, visited by Dr. G . Mrs. G 

holds very stately receptions in this same drawing-room, on 
Monday of each week, at which times her friends are ex- 
pected to be present 

" Saw Mr. and Mrs. W ; listened to a very good ser- 
mon from Mr. W. Reached home on the 25th, after a very 
prosperous journey, so far as our persons were concerned, 
but somewhat adverse in other things. 



196 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

" I have written you a very lengthy and particular ac- 
count of my journey, and find myself very happy in my 
new home. My pretty Grecian cottage should sit for its 
picture now, but my hand is not steady, — cold, accompanied 
with feverish excitement, robs my pen to-day of all point. I 
hope it will soon pass away, and leave my hand power to do 
the bidding of the heart to thee, my kind friend, and to all I 
love. 

". Thine, most fondly, Julia." 

Alas! the hand instead of regaining its accus- 
tomed strength, grew, day by day, more powerless to 
do the heart's bidding. But the heart in its warm 
and holy affections was unsmitten by disease ; and 
as the hand grew weaker, the heart became more 
strong in fond devotion, in holy faith. A few days 
later we give her own statement as to the progress 
of the fatal disease, from a letter addressed to her 
brother, Dr. M. Parker, 

" My dear Brother, — Although it is some two weeks 
since I reached my new home, this is really the first day I 
have been able to announce the fact. First, I have been 
very much indisposed ; and secondly, much occupied with 
visitors. I have taken one of those disastrous colds in my 
journey, which has resulted in a most distressing cough, 
attended with chills and fever. In such an irritable state 
are my lungs, I cannot lie down without much suffering, or 
speak without coughing. I feel better, however, to-day, 
and hope it may wear off." 

That hope was not to be realized ; and even then, 
was no doubt entertained with much misgiving. It 
seems, from the first stages of the attack, there lin- 



ILLNESS — TRUST — PASTOR' S VISIT. 197 

gered, at times, a strong presentiment of the fatal 
termination ; and the earthly house of which she 
speaks of setting in order, was in a measure soon 
forgotten in preparation for the eternal home. The 
exceeding value of life, the end to which it should be 
made subservient, had fully and entirely impressed 
the heart and the understanding. Death had been 
viewed as very near ; and as the certainty of his ap- 
proach became more manifest from day to day, a 
calm and holy acquiescence seemed to pervade her 
whole being. In the Mighty to Save centred every 
hope; and the prevailing sentiment of the soul was, 
Thy will, O God, not mine, be done. The last frag- 
ment from her Diary, breathing this sentiment, bears 
the date of February 2, written in pencil, reading as 
follows : — 

" Have had a most comforting visit from our kind pastor. 
He advises me to commit my case entirely to the Great 
Physician, as the only sure ground of trust. I will do so. 
Lord, I confess in this illness I have leaned too much on 
human aid. I now cast myself bodily and spiritually upon 
thy Almighty arm. Thou hast but to speak the word, and 
thy servant shall be healed from that same hour. I pray 
for restoration to health and comfort, and to usefulness ; but 
I desire far more earnestly, perfect submission to thy most 
holy will. I would be passive in thy hands, and know no 
other will but thine." 

And thus she writes also to a cherished friend : — 

"I hasten to make the best reply in my power to your 
last kind letter, and beg, by the love you bear me, to dis- 
17* 



198 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

miss anxiety from your mind with regard to my health, 
not allowing yourself to be made thus miserable ; all will be 
well, whether life or death. Let us hope, let us trust in 
-God's mercy, not troubling ourselves with anxieties about 
results which he controls in infinite wisdom and goodness. 

" My home is delightful, — my chosen friend devoted and 
kind beyond the expression of words, — but I repeat, 
whether life or death, the will of God be done." 

Similar sentiments we find in a letter to a member 
<of her own family, bearing the date of February 
12: — 

" I am sorry to write with a pencil, but it requires much 
less effort from me, and I trust you will excuse it. I have 
been so long confined to my room without exercise and with 
disease upon me, that my strength has to be consulted. 
Your allusion to my visit home last summer deeply affected 
me, for it reminded me forcibly of all my suffering since. 
But, with you, I rejoice and thank God that we were all per- 
mitted once more to meet together on earth, under very 
happy circumstances ; while I live I shall not forget my 
own happiness, and favors shown me. You speak of my 
new home, and seem desirous to have some daguerreotype 
by which you will know my locality. Our house is a cot- 
tage, with a very pretty Grecian portico, supported by four 
Doric columns. It stands on an eminence, with bright green 
orange trees scattered about, which have a most cheerful 
aspect in winter. There are a great variety of trees sur- 
:rounding, which are now budding, and soon will be beautiful. 
At a little distance are a small lake and creek, whose 
waters may be seen sparkling in the sunbeams, — so much 
for the exterior. Of the kindness within, and the delicate, 
constant attention of my neighbors, I cannot adequately 



SUBMISSION — THE LAST LETTER. 199 

speak. Pray God with me to reward such kindness ' to one 
of the least of these.' I believe I am willing that the holy- 
will of God should be done. Pray for me, that my faith 
may strengthen." 

The last attempt made of the use of either pen or 
pencil, bears the date of March 21, 1852, a short 
time previous to her death, thus writing to her 
sister : — 

" Your affectionate, sympathizing letter, gave me much 
pleasure ; I trust that you still hope and pray for me. My 
love for you is indeed deep and fervent. I trust we may 
not be torn from each other, but meet again in the flesh. 
God is merciful, and we will never fail to trust him. My 
visit home is remembered with unalloyed pleasure. I can 
never be sufficiently grateful to Heaven that such friends 
have fallen to my lot." 

So closes the last expression of trust and affection 
her pen was to express. Its eloquence, its truth, its 
moral purity, its religious devotion, hushed for ever. 
Oh God, thy will be done, — thy ways are not our 
ways, — thy wisdom ruleth, all in mercy. It is thine 
alone to see the end from the beginning. 

Of the brief interval that passed between the last 
date and the close of her earthly pilgrimage, the 
pious hand of affection has treasured the leading 
incidents. When the fever lessened, and the mind 
could exert its accustomed control, listening to the 
promises of the Holy Scriptures, pious conversation, 
and prayer occupied the time. As the shadows of 
the darkened valley began to close around, a calm 



200 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

and holy faith, like the pillar of fire, pointed onward 
to a brighter world — the spirit's resting-place. The 
retrospective glance spoke no unwilling regret, and 
the tender remembrances of fond affection were 
sanctified in the furnace of trial, and borne onward 
to the land whose beauty and holiness and rest 
welcome the pure in heart forever. 

We give the closing scene, from the pen of Mr. 
Dyson, upon whom devolved the melancholy duty 
of transmitting the sad intelligence of her death to 
her family and friends. 

[To Miss L .] 

" Fulton, April 13, 1852. 

" When I last wrote you, I little expected the painful duty 
would so soon devolve upon me of communicating the intel- 
ligence of an event which has filled us here with sorrow and 
mourning, and which will doubtless be received by you with 
the deepest regret. But the Almighty, in his dispensations 
to which we must bow with submission, has so ordered, and 
it now becomes my mournful duty to inform you of the de- 
cease of a long valued and beloved friend, and to me an 
affectionate and dearly cherished wife. She breathed her 
last about half past three o'clock on Wednesday morning, 
the 8th instant, with entire resignation, and in full faith of 
pardon and acceptance with the Redeemer, and in hope of a 
blessed immortality. 

" Soon after writing you last, about a week previous to 
her death, her disease took a change for the worse ; and it 
became evident that all our hopes of convalescence from di- 
minished fever had been delusive, much more so with us than 
herself; for she often said she was gradually sinking, or that 
she was no better. In fact, throughout her long and tedious 



SATURDAY — THE SABBATH. 201 

illness, all the medicines administered seemed merely pallia- 
tives, or at most, had but a temporary effect. Fever now 
increased, and her strength became so greatly prostrated that 
she could no longer sit up, and two nurses were required to 
administer to her comfort. 

" On Saturday night previous to her death, the paroxysm 
of fever came on about 2 o'clock, a. m., attended with dis- 
tressing symptoms and an irregular pulse ; but after a time 
she was relieved. The Sabbath following, being conscious 
that the time of her departure was drawing near, she took 
occasion to converse at length on the important change that 
was soon to take place with her, — to express her views and 
feelings respecting her future state, — to make known her 
wishes and feelings towards her relatives and friends, and to 
give directions respecting sundry small bequests which she 
intended for them as mementos of friendly regard and affec- 
tion. In all this she exhibited a degree of composure and 
self-possession that I have never seen surpassed ; and as all 
her bequests had been arranged some time previously, in 
her own handwriting, I was satisfied that she had steadily 
kept in view, throughout her illness, that it would possibly 
close her mortal career. 

" I feel assured that it will be a consolation to you, as well 
as to her relatives and other friends, to know that from the 
earliest stages of her illness she had been steadily making 
preparations for her earthly exit, by religious exercises, — of 
prayer, and reading the Scriptures, and other choice religious 
reading, as well as those employed during the visitations of 
her pastor. 

" You will desire me to acquaint you with the particulars 
of the closing scene, so full of hope and consolation, and 
where, as I trust, ' death was swallowed up in victory.' 
About 12 o'clock of the last night, after having been toler- 
ably comfortable through the day, her fever began to rise, 



202 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

and about 2 o'clock was at its height ; several of her kind 
friends and myself were at her bedside. It was apparent 
that an important crisis was approaching. Great internal 
heat, restlessness, and difficulty of breathing; finally, 
about 3 o'clock, still greater distress, with an irregular pulse 
and cold extremities, supervened. She now said, i I wish 
to know if my pulse indicates approaching death.' The 
painful question being addressed to myself, I leaned over 
her, and speaking near in her hearing, said, i I feel it my 
painful duty to inform you that it does, — I hope, my dear 
wife, you are prepared to meet your Maker.' Upon this, 
she elevated her hands, with open arms, to receive my last 
embrace ; which being done, she turned a little on one side, 
and extending her hands in the attitude of supplication, ex- 
claimed, in a clear and distinct voice, ' Lord Jesus, receive 
my spirit' She then turned quietly on her back, and seem- 
ing oppressed with heat, said, in a faint voice little above a 
whisper, ' fan me.' She spoke no more. i No more,' fear- 
ful and solemn words, — ' no more on earth for ever. But the 
eloquence of earth is exchanged for the harmony of heaven. 
The freed spirit has its home of rest and peace in the bosom 
of Jesus." 

The same communication adds, in a following 
paragraph : — 

" The high estimation in which your deceased friend was 
held here, and the deep regret felt at her untimely death, 
speak a higher eulogy than any thing coming from myself. 
To me her loss is irreparable ; and while I feel all my plans 
of domestic happiness are broken up, and now left alone to 
meet the trials, the crosses, and disappointments of, perhaps, 
a weary pilgrimage here, yet I cannot but rejoice in the be- 
lief that she is a great gainer. It is also a consolation to 



PLACE OF BURIAL — REQUIEM. 203 

know, that if our journey together was brief, it was one of 
perfect and unbroken harmony. 

" In her last private conference with me, already alluded 
to, she requested me to write affectionately to her relatives 

and friends, particularly to her brother M , her sister, 

and yourself. 

" It now only remains, that I should perform the mourn- 
ful duty of conveying to you her last and dying message of 
friendship and regard, and through you, the same to mutual 

friends. 

******* 

" With affectionate esteem, 

"J. Dyson." 

Where the flowers pay their first tribute, — where 
the leaf scarcely feels the winter blast, — in family 
proximity with those who served their country in the 
early struggle for freedom, — with those who have 
mingled in her councils and legislated in her halls, 
— have graced the bench of the jurist and honored 
the altars of religion, — in such companionship the 
sacred dust slumbers, awaiting the resurrection 
morn. The requiem that a deathless affection 
breathes, is chanted here by the gentle breezes, as 
they come and go, as they sigh amid the thick foli- 
age, or lift the drooping stems of the funeral flowers. 

Rest to the departed, — rest ! 
Earth, press lightly on the breast, 

Once the home of feeling strong ; 
Beautiful flowers, with scented breath, 
Wave round her tomb — it is not death — 

To our nobler being doth belong 
A soul that cannot die, 
But leaves the earth for its home, — the sky. 



204 BIOGRAPHICAL. 

Peace to the departed — peace ! 
Now anxious thought should cease, 

Naught can give unrest — 
Here, the sweet zephyr's breath 
Speaks not of chilling death, 

But from a heaven so blest, 
Bears a faint echo to the ear, 
Telling of bliss we know not here. 

Sleep to the departed — sleep ! 
Angels a kind watch keep 

Around the hallowed dust — 
To the earth's embrace once more 
The cherished we restore 

In holy, changeless trust, 
That this slumber will pass away, 
When dawns the promised day. 

Sleep to the hallowed dust ! 
Ours is a holy trust — 

The spirit lives in heaven, — 
Lives with the good and pure, 
Of glory now secure, 

And though the heart be riven, 
We weep not for the spirit blest, 
Gone early to a peaceful rest. 

TT "JT "TV "?V *H? 



MISCELLANIES, 



MRS. JULIA A. PARKER DYSON. 



18 



MISCELLANIES. 



MORAL INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. 



Woman has been compared to a floweret, springing in 
the path of man, which, by its lovely hues and gentle fra- 
grance, beguiles him of the tediousness of life's rough pil- 
grimage, and teaches him to forget the sorrows of a way- 
farer through an inhospitable world. She has been called 
the harp, whose soft breathing music can lull the stormy 
passions of the human breast, and " lay discord to rest on 
the pillow of peace." She has been likened to that one 
star, whose ray is a guiding light to the tempest-tossed mar- 
iner. Her appellations have been the fireside ornament, — 
the presiding deity in the temple of home, — the China vase 
among the stoneware of humanity. She may be one, or 
all of these ; yet it is chiefly as a moral agent, as the gentle 
minister of virtue, that the fine gold of her character 
appears. 

Since the light of Christianity has dawned upon man, 
and shown him that his highest happiness, as well as his 
true greatness and glory, is intimately interwoven with the 
dignity and elevation of woman, her influence has been 



208 MISCELLANIES. 

gradually gaining new accessions of strength, till at length 
it has been felt in every land and in every clime. True, 
we do not find her, like Joan of Arc, or Margaret of Anjou, 
heading victorious troops on the field of battle, making her 
voice to be heard above the din of the war-strife and the 
dying groans of thousands. She is not found in the stormy 
debate of the senate-chamber, nor do we listen to her elo- 
quence from the pulpit or the rostrum, or hear of her in- 
temperate zeal for the success of rival and ambitious dema- 
gogues. But is it the noisy partisan, whose voice arouses 
and kindles the passions of multitudes, blinding them to the 
dictates of sober reason and sound judgment ? is it the con- 
queror of nations, whose single will is a talisman to the 
thousands who follow him to the field of carnage and 
death ? yea, is it the preacher, who weekly meets his con- 
gregation in the temple of the Most High, from whose lips 
fall the pearls of wisdom as he unfolds the treasures of the 
" Book of books ? " is it these, who exert an influence of that 
constant and habitual character that alone can exercise a 
controlling power over human conduct, or move the springs 
of society ? No. This belongs to the ministry of woman, — 
enlightened, intelligent woman. But it has been said, that 
man, from his coming in contact and collision with a greater 
mass of mind, must necessarily be the chief agent in effect- 
ing revolution and reform. Is it indeed so ? 

When we look into the natural world, do we not find that 
nature accomplishes her most wonderful and astonishing re- 
sults by the most noiseless agents, — by the most silent and 
imperceptible causes ? The mild sunshine, the genial at- 
mosphere, the gently descending shower, are employed to 
transform the acorn into the majestic and lordly oak. It 
owes its strength in the tempest, its defiance of the whirl- 
wind, not to the mountain torrent, the thunder's voice, or 
the lightning's bolt, but to the gentle influences of maternal 



MORAL INFLUENCE OF WOMAN. 209 

nature. The diamond of the rock derives not its existence 
from the tempest's fury, the hurricane's commotion, or the 
earthquake's shock, but to the silent agency of time, and the 
water-drop. The whole universe is bound together by the 
simple principle of gravitation, — a something unseen, un- 
heard, unnoticed, — yet felt to the remotest bounds of the 
Creator's empire. Thus it is with woman. Man may cause 
a moral tempest, he may shake the whole fabric of society, 
but he may be like the wind that lashes into foam the bil- 
lows of the ocean, and tosses about its waves; but 'tis the 
sunshine alone that penetrates its depths. It is not in the 
bustle of the world, in the din of public life, that man arms 
his soul for conflict, or fortifies himself in those principles 
that are to be his anchor in misfortune. No. These are im- 
bibed in the sanctuary of home, and learned at the domes- 
tic fireside. From thence the child carries with him those 
sentiments and feelings that are to sway the future man, 
and perhaps stamp the character of his age. Our own 
Webster, speaking of maternal influence, says, Time may 
destroy the canvass on which the painter has bestowed his 
labor, the marble of the sculptor may crumble to dust, but 
woman works on a substance that is impressed with the seal 
of immortality. 

But in speaking of the influence of woman, the female 
writers of this and past ages should not be forgotten. If the 
consequences of her example, and her verbal instructions 
are so powerful^ so deeply felt, so far-reaching in their re- 
sults, what must be the influence of the inspiration that 
breathes from the eloquent pages of our female poets, mor- 
alists, and essayists, whose thoughts and feelings are thus 
handed down to posterity, and destined to wield a sacred 
and holy influence in all coming time ? In the writings of 
men of genius, in their proudest triumphs of mind, we too 
often find interwoven with the most splendid conceptions of 
18* 



210 MISCELLANIES. 

creative intellect, like dark threads in the silver web of 
thought, sentiments of an impure and immoral tendency, 
calculated to taint and corrupt, rather than furnish health- 
ful nutriment to the mind that receives them. But if the 
Tital spirit of virtue, when allied to high and ennobling 
thought, is alone worthy of an undying laurel, we must 
grant to woman a high rank among the writers of genius, 
with a fame perpetually increasing in the same ratio as the 
morals of society become pure and elevated, and virtue and 
morality receive their proper homage. 

Such a writer is Mrs. Hemans, whose poetry is that of 
the " household and the heart," the influence of which is 
healthful as the breath of morning, and holy as her own 
deep affections. None can rise from the perusal of her 
works, without feeling that the current of thought has been 
.purified, and the whole character elevated and improved. 
it is the end and scope of her writings, to render woman 
attractive, by the charms of moral purity and heavenly vir- 
tue, — to make her lovely at the social hearth and in the 
domestic circle, where she diffuses around peace and seren- 
ity, and exercises the kindly charities and sympathies of her 
nature. 

Much might also be said in eulogy of the writings of 
Hannah More, Miss Edgeworth, Mrs. Ellis, and many others 
in England and our own country, whose talents have been 
enlisted on the side of intelligence and piety. These are 
the true priestesses at the shrine of virtue, and they have 
'brought from the inner temple those rich gifts that alone 
can satisfy the pure in heart. 

Thus may woman, by a spotless example, by her gentle 
teachings, her consecration to the glorious work of ameliorat- 
ing the condition of humanity, by raising the standard of 
mental and moral excellence, become the vicegerent of God 
himself, and his instrument in the regeneration of the race. 



RIZPAH. 



The day lay dying on the far summits of Judea's purple 
mountains ! The drapery of her cloud-pavilion was rich in 
goldenness and beauty, and around her couch stood the cour- 
tiers and attendants, whose gorgeous robes were to pale 
with the parting of her sceptre. Yet for a time she lin- 
gered amid all the pomp and regalia of her short-lived 
royalty, with the golden circlet of the declining sun resting 
upon her youthful brow ! 

Beneath this scene of glory, and not less beautiful, lay, 
like some splendid panorama, the goodly land of Palestine. 
The sombre green of the olive groves had caught the smile 
of the dying day, and raised their snowy blossoms more 
caressingly to heaven. The harvest plains awaited the 
reaper's hand, and the summer lay sleeping like some flower- 
crowned cherub in the bright green valleys that peacefully 
severed the sloping hills. 

The sacred Jordan rolled onward its yellow waves in 
majestic grandeur, now chafing into foam against the wild 
luxuriance that fretted its margin with living emerald, anon 
upheaving, as from some exhausted mine, a thousand golden 
ripples, and again, with a dark and troubled flow it hasted 
to quench its billows, whose birthplace had been the snow- 
summits of the distant Lebanon, in the baleful waters of the 
sea of death ! The sky and earth, enamoured of each other, 
seemed reading to man a gentle homily of love and happi- 



212 MISCELLANIES. 

ness, lulling him into a sweet forgetfulness that the fair 
scene around was not the primal paradise fresh from its 
Maker's hand ! But, alas ! there were eyes, tears, mois- 
tened eyes, that saw no glory in that sky, no beauty in that 
earth ! Hearts — crushed, broken hearts, that thrilled with 
no joyfulness at such an awakening of the beautiful ; for 
the day, whose farewell had been so glorious, had witnessed 
a fearful, a bloody tragedy in Judah ! The red right-hand 
of vengeance had arrested the princes of the house of Saul, 
and on the hill of Gibeah they had expiated, with their 
lives, the faithlessness and cruelty of their royal father to 
the enslaved and devoted Gibeonites, and thereby stayed 
the famine that betokened the wrath of heaven upon his 
chosen people. 

The sacred chronicler has left no record of those who 
thus perished in the bloom and strength of their early man- 
hood, save that the sins of the fathers were fearfully visited 
upon the children by Him to whom belongeth vengeance ! 
But we need not seek to lift the curtain of silence that veils 
their history ; whether worthy or unworthy, noble in char- 
acter as in birth, we ask not. It suffices to know, that in 
the heart of her who bore them, they were loved with that 
"deep, strong, deathless tenderness, that lives but in a 
mother's heart ! " Two of these unfortunate offspring of a 
kingly line were the sons of Rizpah, and death had de- 
spoiled her of her treasures. 

But, in the death of one whom we love with the heart's 
mightiest idolatry, there is a drop of mercy, when that 
friend, after nights of weariness and days of anguish, 
sweetly resigns, with a prepared and willing spirit, this coil 
terrestial for the vestments of the celestial paradise, — when 
the last fond look rests upon us in unutterable affection, — 
the hand's last pressure thrills our own, and the sculptured 
marble, more beautiful even than when warm with the 



MZPAH. 213 

mystery of life, lingers in our presence till it has unfadingly 
daguerreotyped itself in the chambers of remembrance, 
then to be laid in an honored grave to slumber till the 
eternal morn. I say, under these circumstances, there is a 
star of consolation that struggles dimly through the thick, 
darkness of the woe-stricken spirit! But to see disgrace- 
and shame coiling like loathed monsters about our idols, 
blackening and polluting the names we had written on our 
very hearts' tablets, and entwined with the fairest flowers of 
innocence and love ! Oh, this is agony, in comparison of' 
which, all common sorrow is but as the scattered drops that 
prelude the full burst of the lightning-winged tempest! 
What imagination can adequately picture the dark anguish- 
of that lonely widow in Judah, as she goes forth from her 
royal home, where she had daintily shared the soft refine- 
ments of a court, with her sackcloth in hand ? Timid as is 
her woman's nature, that ever asks for shelter and protec- 
tion, she seems unmindful of the gathering darkness that is 
folding the earth in its brooding wings, as she takes her sol- 
itary way to Mount Gibeah, where hang the lifeless bodies 
of her sons. 

At that solemn hour, in the presence of that company of 
the dead, whose distorted and ghastly features might well 
have sent back the warm blood from the cheek of the strong' 
man, who had grown familiar with many a bloody field, did: 
this lone woman spread her sackcloth couch. The rugged 
rock pillowed her gentle head, the sackcloth chafed her deli- 
cate limbs, but she felt them not. There is a grief, that in its 
mastery overcomes every effeminate custom, every luxuri- 
ous habit, every desire ministered to by taste and elegance,- 
and to which privation and destitution are luxurious. There- 
is a grief that could render that rock-couch on the moun- 
tain summit, canopied by the nightly firmament, and senti- 
nelled by the grim corpses of the slain, a downier one than; 



214 MISCELLANIES. 

that beneath whose silken tapestry slumbers the heir of a 
regal crown. 

The night deepened ! The stars came out, one by one, 
from the chambers of heaven, till a thousand loving eyes 
seemed watchful over the sleeping earth ! The mountain 
breeze swept past with a chilling breath, and the solemn 
majesty of night inspired the soul with reverence ! 

The wild beasts, whose lair was the thickets of the Jordan 
or the mountain solitudes of Judea, ever and anon dis- 
turbed the fearful silence with their howlings, while the 
birds of prey flapped their huge wings ominously in the 
distance, and sent forth a piercing cry that added horror 
to that midnight scene ! Still Rizpah lingered, the guardian 
of her dead, unconscious of fear or danger. As if awed 
by the majesty of sorrow that thus inspired with super- 
human energy this solitary, defenceless woman, the raven- 
ous beasts, famishing for food and thirsty for blood, turned 
back to their dens, while the vulture and the eagle sought 
their eyries, disappointed of their repast ! 

Morning broke upon the hills with a serene and quiet 
loveliness, and again the sun sent down his piercing rays 
upon the land he warms into beauty and fertility ; still she 
turned not homeward her footsteps, for her dead were un- 
sepulchred. Again and again came and went the fearful 
night. Still she lingered till the strange devotion of her 
woman's heart had aroused the admiration and sympathy of 
the king, through whom she saw the remains of her loved 
deposited in the burial-place of the house of Saul. 

This is woman's affection ! this is a mother's love ! 
There is a moral sublimity in this passion, that awes the 
soul ! It scorns the sordid bonds of mere interest ! It 
can exist in all its strength, without personal or even mental 
charms for its aliment ! It can robe with an ideal loveli- 
ness those whom the world has cast off in its scorn, defying 



rizpah. 215 

danger, obloquy, and contempt ! It lives alike fresh and 
verdant, amid all Time's changes, whether pillowing the soft 
cheek of infancy, or resting with pride on the manly brow ; 
whether playing with a lambent glory around the couch of 
the departing, or weeping at the sepulchre, when all other 
tears have ceased to flow. 

Peace, oh desolate one, if thou hast a mother on the earth ! 
The world may forsake thee, thine own familiar friend may 
speak with an altered tone, — " weary with the march of 
life " thou mayest rejoice to find the grave, — but know 
that its sod shall be moistened with precious tears, and thy 
memory, fresh, pure, bright as the dew of the morning, shall 
linger in one human heart till the last pulsation shall con- 
sign the clay it animated to thy own lowly bed, to rest by 
thy side till the dawn of an immortal day. 



TO MY MOTHER, 



ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER DEATH. 



Four years have passed away, mother, 

Four weary years to me, 
Since thou to earth didst bid farewell, 

A brighter home to see. 
And though in this sad world of change, 

My heart hath often sighed, 
To see the eyes that wept a friend, 

Of tears so quickly dried. 

Yet all thou 'at been to me, mother, 

How can I e'er forget ? 
Thy image lives within my heart, 

In memory's jewels set ; 
And time, that from the canvass steals 

Its beauty fresh and fair, 
Shall seek in vain to lay his hand 

On what I've treasured there. 

Four times hath gentle spring, mother, 

With soft and airy tread, 
With living green renewed the turf 

That crowns thy lowly bed ; 



TO MY MOTHER. 217 

And love's untiring hand hath taught 

Full many a flow'ret rare, 
Its wealth of beauty to disclose, 

And breathe its perfume there. 

And when to that loved spot, mother, 

My pilgrimage I We made, 
And felt how all I cherished most, 

Within thy grave was laid, — 
How to the yearning, trusting heart, 

But one such friend is given ; 
No tie on earth hath seemed so sweet 

As that which links to heaven. 

But though thy gentle voice, mother, 

On earth no more we hear, 
Like some sweet melody of night, 

That charms the list'ning ear, — 
Yet voice there needeth not to tell 

That the fountains of thy love, 
Which made earth's path so green and bright, 

Still gush for thine above. 

I 've read in heavenly truth, mother, 

That spirits pure and bright, 
With sheltering wings infold us here, 

And guide our steps aright. 
Then oh, my mother, let me feel 

That thou my angel art, 
To cheer, to bless, to shield from harm, 

And peace and joy impart. 

Then with a strong high heart, mother, 
I '11 meet the ills of life ; 
19 



218 MISCELLANIES. 

Stand in my lot with dauntless trust, 
And conquer in the strife ; 

And the fond hope shall cheer me here, 
That when the watchword 's given, 

My dust shall rest with thine on earth, 
My soul with thine in heaven. 



THE MOMENT OF SUCCESS. 



In the fair bowers of Paradise, ere the serpent had! 
accomplished his deadly work, or the tree of knowledge 
yielded its fatal gift, labor and care were unknown. Fruit- 
ful nature yielded, unsought, her richest treasures, and the 
bounties of heaven, gently as its own dew, descended upon 
man, demanding no return, save gratitude and enjoyment. 
But when he had passed the precincts of that happy place, 
for ever closed against him, by the flaming sword of the 
angelic guard, far different were the conditions of his being. 
In the sweat of his brow was he to eat his bread ; with labor, 
toil, and suffering, was he to purchase all earthly good. 
Stern as was this decree of the Almighty, mercy was en- 
closed therein, — dark as was the cloud of human destiny, the 
rainbow of peace and joy was planted upon it. Rest was 
to be doubly sweet after toil, — prosperity more bright 
after adversity, — success more glorious after obstacles sur- 
mounted and difficulties vanquished. True it was, the soft 
vales of Paradise were no longer to be his inheritance, and. 
the bright inhabitants of heaven his familiar guests no more ;. 
yet some flowerets of bliss, lovely as those of Eden, were to. 
gladden his exile with their beauty, and still be to him and, 
his descendants the sweet teachers in the lessons of happi- 
ness. Yes, surely, in this desolate world, 

" Some moments are to mortals given, 
With less of earth in them than heaven/' 

some brief seasons, which fully compensate for years of 



220 MISCELLANIES, 

toil and pain, bringing to the soul an intensity of enjoy- 
ment, which makes it conscious of its vast capabilities of 
happiness, when the fetters of mortality shall be broken. 
In the arrangements of Infinite Wisdom, such feelings have 
been decreed to man, as the reward of exertion in the attain- 
ment of laudable objects, — the laurel crown of well-directed 
effort. No faculty of our being, exercised in its proper 
sphere, can fail to bring this promised blessing. And though 
all experience this happiness in kind, from the child who 
triumphantly sees his tiny house stand secure, to the sover- 
eign who beholds successfully carried out his vast plans for 
a nation's welfare, yet the degree must depend on the great- 
ness of that purpose, and the difficulties that have impeded 
its accomplishment. 

Who can know what a moment was that for Columbus, 
when, after years of untiring but ever baffled effort for the 
.attainment of his favorite object, after a thousand dangers 
of an unknown ocean, and many a sleepless and anxious 
night, he saw floating near his vessel a green herb, the joy- 
ful herald to his troubled spirit, and the long sought object 
of his ardent hopes ! And when these joyful anticipations 
were confirmed by the sight of that lovely island, reposing 
upon the ocean in all its greenness and beauty, inhabited by 
an unknown race, perhaps the neighbor of a mighty conti- 
nent, which was by him to be bequeathed to the world, and 
become the perpetual monument of his fame ; what emo- 
tions must have filled his soul ! A joy so pure, so deep, so 
concentrated, as to have outweighed whole years of suffer- 
ing ! What though his childhood had been spent in the 
midst of dangers and privations, and the fountains of joy, 
peculiar to that happy season, to him almost unknown ? 
What though the bright dreams of his youthful imagination 
were indulged in the silence of solitude, finding in no sympa- 
thizing breast an answering chord ; and the deep yearnings 



THE MOMENT OF SUCCESS. 221 

of his enthusiastic nature made known, only to be chilled 
and repressed, by the disapprobation of dull mediocrity ? 
What though his more mature years were marked by dis- 
appointment and sorrow, and that agony which a noble 
mind can so deeply feel when, conscious of its own greatness, 
and the loftiness and integrity of its purposes, it finds them 
unappreciated, or met with indifference or contempt ? 
What though he had left the shores of Spain amid the jeers 
and maledictions of the spectators, denounced as visionary, 
a mark for the finger of scorn, with a world of dread un- 
certainty present to his imagination, and none to ask the 
blessing of heaven on an enterprise so chimerical, or com- 
mend him to that Being, who holds the waters in the hollow 
of his hand ? Was there ever prospect so gloomy, ever 
circumstances so disheartening ? But in that moment of 
success, in the realization of all those brilliant hopes of life's 
fair morning, in the actual possession of the goal, to gain 
which his whole life had been consecrated to self-denial and 
suffering, the trials of the past were remembered no more. 
He was to return to his adopted land in triumph, to see him- 
self an object of applause and admiration, where but late he 
had been one of pity and contempt ; to be welcomed to the 
presence of royalty, bearing with him a gift that even maj- 
esty would be proud to accept, the gift of a new world. 

From Columbus we turn to another of the sons of genius, 
one who discovered not a world, but the secret and invisible 
chain that binds all worlds, — the immortal Newton. We 
are told by his biographer, that when he perceived the great 
law of gravitation, — a law whose existence for years he 
had suspected, and labored to prove, was to be established 
beyond a doubt by his calculations, so deeply was he af- 
fected by the grandeur of the discovery, and the astonishing 
effects resulting from it, that he was obliged to commit to 
the firmer hand and cooler judgment of a friend, the com- 

19* 



222 MISCELLANIES. 

pletion of what was to give his name to immortality. It 
was a triumph of intellect, that shook the pillars of the frail 
rtenement that obstructed its far-seeing vision and limited its 
heavenward aspirations. What had he not accomplished ? 
Truly, he had become the high-priest of science, and en- 
tered within the veil never before lifted to mortal vision ! 
Before him was spread out the illimitable universe, with its 
-systems of worlds, all revolving in their aerial and unwea- 
ried journeying in allegiance to that simple but grand and 
'beautiful law, that brought the apple to the ground. What 
though, since touched by the hand of Omnipotence, the com- 
iplicated machinery of the material world had moved in 
" solemn silence," it was now compelled, at the mandate of 
genius, to disclose its secrets, and reveal to mortal ear its 
harmonies. In that moment of success, he must have felt 
that his name henceforth was to be linked with the beau- 
tiful order of the universe, and his fame written in the 
.heavens. 

On the page of history stands another name, more dear 
to every American heart than that of the discoverer of 
ithis vast continent, or the promulgator of nature's hidden 
laws, — our own beloved Washington. In the glorious 
success that crowned his noble purposes and indefatiga- 
ble exertions for his country's good, another bright example 
is left to the aspirant after those imperishable honors, that 
encircle the brow of him who becomes the benefactor of his 
-race. Do they not bid him, when he feels within him 
ithe upspringing of a lofty sentiment, a consciousness of 
powers that may contribute to the elevation of men, to press 
'through difficulties and dangers, with duty for his watchword, 
and the arm of Omnipotence for his defence, till the object 
is attained, the victory won ? And how boundless is the 
field of laudable ambition ! True, in no far distant ocean 
may an unknown world be awaiting the approach of genius 



THE MOMENT OF SUCCESS. 223 

to give it a name in the annals of time, — no grand uni- 
versal truth may at his bidding, stand confessed to the ad- 
miration of the world, — nor like Washington may it be his 
to bring to a successful issue, a great political revolution, 
and to be the founder of a republic, whose name is a dis- 
tinguished star in the constellation of nations. Along these 
bright paths his destiny may not lead him ; yet let him re- 
member that in the moral and physical world the cause of 
truth still calls for champions, that from tht, great heart of 
humanity may still be heard* the unceasing groan, extorted 
by suffering, ignorance, and guilt ; that the field of doing 
good is everywhere ripe unto harvest, and success certain, 
if the spirit faints not. Nor should he forget, that in this 
struggle for the supremacy of the nobler principles of our 
nature, the lowliest soldier, if he stands his ground, and 
fearlessly unsheathes his weapon, contributes to the victory, 
and will share the reward ; that every noble thought, sent 
forth from his own soul, will find, like the winged seed, its 
resting-place, and perchance nerve some arm more vigorous 
than his own, or like a wheel within a wheel, set in motion 
the energies of some spirit, that shall prove to the world a 
Washington or a Newton. In the noble cause of good to 
man, surely none should despair, for 

" Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And departing leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time 
* # # * 

" Let us, then, be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate, 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 
Learn to labor and to wait." 



'TIS THE LAST OF EARTH; I AM 
CONTENT. 

Dying words of John Q. Adams. 



Bright were its joys, as the paradise flower 

That swayed to the zephyr's soft wing; 
They brought to my heart a glorious dower, 

Like the roseate wealth of spring. 
And I wreathed Life's mantling cup around, 

While its wine gushed sparkling o'er ; 
But Earth's Marah drops in the draught I found — 

I am content to quaff no more. 

Its hopes were like birds of a tropic clime, 

With their winglets of rainbow light ; 
They filled with sweet visions my morning prime, 

Till the mystic future grew bright ; 
But the leaflets have fallen from fancy's bowers, 

And my gay plumaged hopes have flown ; 
Their music hath died with the vanished hours, 

And memory weepeth alone. 

Farewell to the fame I 've struggled to gain, 

In the thick-tented field of life ! 
When with heart mail clad, a maddened brain, 

I rushed to the desperate strife. 
With the garland I snatched the thorn was twined, 

And a blight on the myrtle lay ! 



THE LAST OF EARTH. 225 

No more false glory bedazzles my mind, 
Away with earth's honors ! away ! 

Life's sorrows no more my torn heart shall know, 

That with change and with chance hath striven ; 
No more shall it mourn lost treasures below, 

When its quivering life-chords are riven ! 
But faith hath caught visions of brighter worth, 

Where rest to the weary is given ; 
I joy to find the Omega of earth ! 

Death opes to the Alpha of heaven ! 



THE HEROIC WOMEN OF ROME. 



The history of Rome ! What a treasure-house of intel- 
lectual wealth does it furnish, — gems untarnished by the 
finger of time, gleaming faintly from the darkness of ages, 
like the stars of night, far off, but glorious and sublime ! It 
is an inexhaustible ore, where mind of every order may 
search, nor find its toil in vain. To the spirit that thirsts 
for military glory, or the triumphal car of a nation's admira- 
tion, she holds up the example of her Caesars and her 
Scipios. For him who would bind a listening multitude in 
willing bondage by the golden chain of heavenly eloquence 
till every individual intellect was lost in the one master- 
mind, she has her Ciceros ; for the historian and poet, her 
Livys and Virgils ; for the statesman, her rich lore of 
political wisdom, her examples of patriotism, so stern and 
unyielding as to silence the strong pleadings of nature, and 
to lay them a sacrifice on the country's altar, — a gift ac- 
ceptable to the gods. 

But has she no chaplet for the brow of woman ? When 
weary of life's petty cares and the dull commonplace of 
every-day existence, or disgusted with the heartlessness of 
her flatterers and the world's hollow smiles, her spirit would 
fain escape for a time from the present, and fold its tired 
pinion amid the glorious memories of the past, — is there no 
example of heroic virtue, the contemplation of which would 
impart new energy to a fainting heart, and from which she 
would return to the duties of her sphere, more strong to act, 



THE HEROIC WOMEN OF ROME. 227 

more patient to suffer ? She turns with horror from the 
blood-written page of the warrior's achievements, for glory 
is for her no talismanic word. Her fancy hears, in the 
proud moment of victory, but the groans of the dying, — 
sees but the despair of families bereaved, and the sacred ties 
of social life wantonly sundered by the sword of ambition ; 
and her woman's heart, made for the tender sympathies of 
life, sickens at the thought. She reads not, indeed, without 
interest, of the grand and spirit-stirring events that live in 
the history of this proud nation ; but alas ! what practical 
wisdom may she draw from thence to crown with a new 
halo the sanctuary of home ? Her place is there, and 
naught relating to conquest or to empire can throw a 
charm over her lowly duties. 

But she does not turn in vain the page of history for ex- 
amples of heroism in woman. There, beautiful and bright, 
stands Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, the noble 
daughter of the great Africanus. She was a woman whose 
qualities of mind and heart were of so exalted an order, 
they needed not the reflected lustre of her splendid lineage. 
Her heroic self-reliance, her astonishing fortitude and calm- 
ness in the heaviest afflictions a human being can suffer, her 
magnanimity of soul, are unparalleled in the annals of history. 
Having followed to the grave her husband and nine of her 
children, she did not fold around her the mantle of sorrow 
and sit down in despair. She did not indulge in the selfish- 
ness of grief, nor say to her tears, From henceforth ye shall 
be my sole comforters. Oh no, such a course was not for 
Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi. Though the arch de- 
stroyer had been at her casket of gems, he had not taken 
them all. Three of her children yet remained to her, and 
she resolved to lay aside the habiliments of sorrow, and 
deck herself with these her jewels. For them she was now 
to live ; to make them a gift acceptable to her country, was 



228 MISCELLANIES. 

now her sole ambition. Her beauty, her talents, her virtues, 
won for her universal admiration, and the hand of a king 
was proffered her, and a seat on Egypt's magnificent throne. 
Was she not ambitious? Surely she could not resist so 
potent an allurement as this. But behold Cornelia, like a 
true woman, though the laws of society and public opinion 
stood ready, like powerful attorneys, to remove all scruples, 
she felt that her heart was now widowed, that the memory 
of the dead was still its lord, — that her children were a 
coronet more rich in value than the wealth of a monarch 
could confer, and she refused the gift. 

All the energies of her noble character were devoted to 
the education of her sons, and she had the happiness to see 
them, under her auspices, animated by the most patriotic 
devotion to their country, and long the sternest champions 
and defenders of its liberties. She saw them the favorites 
of the people, generous in character, brave and intrepid in 
war, and excellent magistrates, eloquent pleaders for the 
oppressed, and filling with dignity the highest places the 
State could confer on her virtuous citizens. Well might 
her mother's pride be gratified ; well might she feel that she 
had not lived in vain ; that in her country's crown her jew- 
els shone with no insignificant lustre. 

But ahe was yet to experience a calamity more terrible 
than any she had hitherto endured. She was to see these 
jewels trampled in the dust, — her noble sons the victims of 
the hatred and fury of their enemies, — even their lifeless 
bodies mangled and disgraced in the streets of their native 
city, and denied the honors of sepulture. Cornelia was a 
woman and a mother. What was now to become of her ? 
Surely the deep waters had come in upon her; and was 
there enough of moral power left to buffet these waves of 
affliction, and turn them back from their work of destruc- 
tion ? Let the muse of history speak, who has with a sun- 



THE HEROIC WOMEN OF ROME. 229 

beam recorded her greatness. She bore all these misfor- 
tunes with a noble magnanimity, and said of the consecrated 
place where her sons lost their lives, " They were monu- 
ments worthy of them." 

She took up her residence at Mesenum, and made no 
alteration in her manner of living. As she had many 
friends, her house was the seat of a noble hospitality- 
Greeks, and other men of letters, she always had with 
her; and all the kings in alliance with Home expressed 
their regard by sending her presents, and receiving the like- 
civilities in return. She made herself agreeable to her 
guests by acquainting them with many particulars of her 
father, Scipio Africanus, and his manner of living. But 
what they most admired in her was, that in speaking of her 
sons, she could recount their actions and sufferings without 
a sigh or tear, as if she had been giving a narrative of some 
ancient heroes. Some, therefore, imagined that age, and the 
greatness of her misfortunes, had deprived her of under- 
standing and sensibility ; but those who were of that opin- 
ion seem rather to have wanted understanding themselves, 
since they knew not how much a noble mind may, by liberal' 
education, be enabled to support itself against distress ; and 
though, in the pursuit of rectitude, fortune may often defeat 
the purposes of virtue, yet virtue, in bearing affliction, can< 
never lose her prerogative. 

From Cornelia we turn to the heroic women to whom. 
Rome was indebted for her preservation, in the season of 
her greatest peril ; when one of her own sons, in the person 
of Coriolanus, stood at her gates at the head of the sworn 
enemies of his country, thirsting for revenge, and resolved 
upon her destruction. The city was unprepared for defence y 
it was torn with faction, filled with sedition, terror, and con- 
fusion, — tears flowing down the cheeks of aged men, — the 
altars of the gods besieged with supplications,, and the peo- 
20 



230 MISCELLANIES. 

pie in despair. It was resolved to send a deputation, com- 
posed of the noblest senators and the warmest friends of 
him who> was now an enemy to his country ; but they were 
received with scorn, and haughtily told that peace would be 
granted only on his own severe conditions. When the time 
given them for the consideration of his terms had expired, 
a second embassy was sent, and still more sternly answered. 
What was to be done? To save the sinking republic there 
was one last resort, — the casting of the sacred anchor. 
The priests and ministers of the gods, clad in their sacerdo- 
tal robes, armed with all the insignia of their holy office, 
and all the dignity of their sacred function, — men before 
whom he was wont to bow in profound veneration, were de- 
spatched with full confidence of success. But still inexora- 
ble, the same haughty answer was given — to accept the 
conditions, or prepare for war. Unhappy Rome I The 
wisdom of thy senators, thy appeals to the gods, thy priests 
and divines, thy guardians of the sacred mysteries, could 
avail nought. Must the commonwealth perish by the hand 
of a traitor ? No. It was still to live, and owe its salva- 
tion to woman ! 

Valeria, the sister of the great Publicola, comes forth 
from the temple of Jupiter,, where, with the most illustrious 
matrons, she had been supplicating her country's safety, — 
with no look, of despair, for she has devised an expedient ; 
she has dared to cherish a hope for deliverance. They re- 
pair to the mansion of Volumnia, the mother of him in 
whose hands was the destiny of Rome. They find her sit- 
ting in sorrow with Virgilia and her children, sympathizing 
in a common calamity. Why intrude they thus on the pri- 
vacy of grief? Have they come to offer them condolence, 
and mingle their tears ? No, such was not their mission. 
It was no time for tears, or woman's weakness. The 
country, the country in peril, was the one thought. With 



THE HEROIC WOMEN OF ROME. 231 

words of encouragement, drawn from examples in their own 
history of woman's power to disarm even vengeance of its 
purpose, they ask the wife and mother of Coriolanus to ac- 
company them to the hostile camp, to supplicate the enemy 
to spare his bleeding country, or die at his feet. But where 
were they going ? At the unwonted sight of the bristled 
ranks of a vindictive soldiery, and all the paraphernalia of 
" grim-visaged war," would not their native timidity return, 
and their magnanimous purpose be forgotten ? No. These 
were Roman women, and what they could purpose, that 
would they execute. They made an appeal, not of tears 
alone, but with the power of reason, and full of eloquence. 
He embraces them, mingles his tears with theirs, but is 
silent. Will he relent ? He is bound to the Volscians, and 
has sworn to be revenged on his country. Shall his pur- 
pose be broken ? Shall he yield to the entreaties of a 
woman ? Is it not weakness, and what will be the fearful 
consequences to him from those w r hose cause he has 
espoused ? He hesitates. Volumnia, his mother, and Vir- 
gilia, his wife, with her children, throw themselves at his 
feet ; the struggle between duty and inclination is a fearful 
one, but it is past. He raises them from the ground with 
tenderness, and exclaims, " Oh, mother, you have saved 
your country, but lost your son ! I go, vanquished by you 
alone ! " With the tidings of peace they return to Rome, 
and are hailed as the deliverers of their country. For 
their success in this noble mission, they w r ere treated with 
distinguished honors, and by order of the senate a temple 
was erected at the public expense -to the " Fortune of 
Women," commemorative of that exalted patriotism that 
triumphs over the tenderest personal feeling. 

On the wife of Caesar the historian has pronounced an 
enviable eulogy, — " the triumphs of her husband never 
inspired her with presumption, nor his reverses with dejec- 



232 MISCELLANIES. 

tion." No change of manner ever designated to others 
when she was the wife of the senator, or the wife of the mas- 
ter of the world. Of the sister of Lucius Caesar, and mother 
of Antony, we are told that when, in accordance with the 
orders of that terrible triumvirate whose decrees were so 
fatal to the republic, his murderers -had broken into the 
house and were forcing their way to his chamber, she placed 
herself at the door, and stretching forth her hands, she cried, 
" You shall not kill Lucius Caesar till you have first killed 
me, the mother of your general!" At the majesty of virtue, 
and the dignity of her mien, the assassins started back, pow- 
erless to execute their bloody purpose. 

Of the magnanimity of Portia, the daughter of Cato and 
wife of Brutus, we have a remarkable proof. Seeing her 
husband often buried in thought, with a countenance of deep 
anxiety, as if he was meditating some dangerous and fear- 
ful enterprise, she desired to share his secret counsels, and 
to aid and solace by her sympathy his agitated spirit ; yet 
she resolved not to ask his confidence, till by a severe, self- 
inflicted wound, she had made a trial of her firmness in the 
endurance of physical suffering. When she found herself 
proof against pain she presented her claims, and received 
ever after, what she so richly merited, a free and generous 
confidence. 

These are a few of the bright galaxy of names that time 
with his effacing finger has not been able to erase from the 
historic page. There they shine in all their native lustre, 
as an encouragement to woman to nerve herself to noble 
and generous action. Let her not imagine that her lot is too 
humble, her sphere too narrow, for the exercise of the sub- 
lime attributes of humanity. Though her path may be 
"along the cool, sequestered vale of life," spanned by no 
triumphal arch, though no trumpet of fame may blazon to 
an applauding multitude her heroic deeds, or reward them 



THE HEROIC WOMEN OF ROME. 233 

with public place or emolument, though from the sway of 
the affections she may be deficient in intellectual power, and 
feel her inability to develop the laws of nature, or add new 
wealth to the treasury of science, yet let her remember that 
moral is superior to mental greatness, and that to follow the 
great principles of human duty is a nobler work than to trace 
with far-seeing eye the progress of the stars. Her place in 
the economy of Providence is not a less distinguished one than 
that of the philosopher who interprets the secrets of nature, 
or the statesman those of government It is hers to make a 
Pantheon of the temple of home, where every virtue may 
find itself a household divinity, to strew with flowers life's 
wearisome pilgrimage, and to prepare by her faithful instruc- 
tion the minds committed to her teaching for her country 
and her God. Surely the mission of woman is one of no in- 
ferior dignity. Let her awake to a sense of her high des- 
tiny, and arm herself with energy and moral power ; and 
though, like Cornelia, she may be deprived of every prop on 
which she was wont to lean, and behold the destruction of 
her fondest hopes, like her may she rise superior to afflic- 
tion, not forgetting that her commission in the ranks of duty 
expires but with life, and that the smile .of cheerfulness 
is still to gladden the heart, to become her watchword and 
living inspiration. From the wife of Caesar she may learn 
that equanimity of character which can w r ear with modesty 
the laurels of prosperity, and, like the night-blooming flower, 
look up with serenity and hope in the darkness of adversity. 
In the example of Portia she is taught that sympathy with 
suffering, and that firmness of mind that will make her de- 
serving of unlimited confidence ; and though, like Volumnia, 
she never may be called upon to save her perishing country, 
yet, when true to her high destiny, she may, by a salutary 
moral influence, impart to it a principle of vitality and 
strength that shall ever preserve it from ruin. 
20* 



THE BAPTISM. 



It was the holy Sabbath ! silence seemed 

To drop her prophet-mantle, as she rose 

O'er the vast human hive, whose thronged streets 

Had echoed through the licensed week with sounds 

Tumultuous, as those that erst were heard 

On Shinar's plain, — when God came down to see 

The heaven-aspiring monument of pride 

And arrogance in man ! 

The busy din had ceased. 
Traffic, careworn, his golden coffers closed, 
-And commerce furled her ensigns. Toil had rest ; 
And Penury doffed her livery of woe. 
The "peace, be still," seemed wafted down to earth 
On angel wing, and passion's waves lay hushed 
.Beneath the gentle spell ! 

The chimes had tolled the hour for prayer, 
And silently the reverent multitude 
Filled up the vast cathedral's space, where art 
Aspired to rear a structure worthy him 
Who dwelleth not in temples made with hands, 
Yet deigneth his abode, where'er a heart 
In humble penitence its sin hath mourned ! 
A sombre gloom, like the deep forest shades, 
Religious awe inspired, and chastened roving thought ; 
While richly streaming from each gorgeous pane, 
The rainbow light its living radiance poured, 



THE BAPTISM. 235 

As Grief and Hope were met in glad embrace. 

In snowy vestments stood the priest of God, 

Meet emblems of that spotless innocence, 

That well beseemeth him, whose lips have breathed 

The holy vows of world-renunciation ; 

Yet the dark scarf that o'er his shoulders hung, 

Revealed the lingering sin, whose stain can ne'er 

Be purged, till the freed spirit shall put on 

Her robes of immortality. 

In prostrate attitude the humbled soul 

Had mourned its wanderings from its God. 

The wondrous Tome, replete with heavenly lore 

That angel mind ne'er fathomed, had told out 

Its oracles of peace and joy to man. 

The solemn ritual ceased, — 
And sacred stillness filled the holy place, 
As when the glory of the Lord possessed 
The gorgeous fane, upreared by Israel's king. 
A group approached the altar — with a gift 
More precious far than eastern Magi brought, 
To greet their Saviour King. Gold, and myrrh, 
The tributes rich of Araby's blest land, 
How paltry and how vain, compared with this, 
A soul immortal — fresh in being, — pure 
As the virgin snow-flake, ere 't is stained 
By touch of earth, — presented to its God 
With sacramental vows, sealed with the rite 
Of holy baptism ! 

Folded in the arms 
Of him who ministered in heavenly things, 
Upon the cherub face of that fair child, 
Fell from the marble font the cleansing dew 
In hallowed drops, to that great name above — 
The sacred Three in One ! — while on the brow, 



236 MISCELLANIES. 

Where thought, and care, and sin no lines had traced, 

Was drawn the symbol of that suffering one, 

Who knew all human sorrow. 

Again devotion bent her knee in prayer, 

And faith's all-soaring pinion upward bore 

The earthly name, at holy shrine bestowed, 

That it henceforth might be with seraph pen, 

Inscribed within the Lamb's own Book of Life. 

And now resounded through the temple vast, 
Playing and circling round the fretted dome, 
The triumph swell of the full organ choir, 
In wave on wave of heavenly harmony ! 
Till the rapt soul, on the loud psean borne, 
Conceives herself in glory's vestibule, 
And hears angelic harps, and trumpet notes, 
Proclaim the victory o'er sin to Him 
Who sits upon the throne, and to the Lamb 
Forever and forevermore ! 



REFLECTIONS ON AUTUMN. 



How harmoniously doth nature combine instruction and 
delight in all her varied teachings ! Each passing season 
bequeathes to man its golden legacy of moral precepts ; 
and though the poet has sung mournfully over the decaying 
glories of autumn's u melancholy days," and moralists of all 
time found him a preacher of a sad countenance, yet not 
more eloquently doth the falling leaf discourse on the brev- 
ity of life and the frailty of human hopes, than doth the 
meek floweret that folds its petals, and breathes out its fra- 
grant life on the bosom of spring, or the gayer children of 
summer, as one by one they yield up their beauteous exist- 
ence to their mother earth. Yes, spring and summer, 
blooming daughters of the year, and rich in youthful love- 
liness, have, equally with faded autumn, their sybil leaves, 
on which are inscribed truths of deep import, prophetic of 
human destiny. The vernal nursling — fairy child of the 
sunshine and shower — perishing from our sight, emblems 
the human blossom, cut down by the destroying angel in its 
first blush of beauty, leaving behind stricken hearts, who 
with it had committed to dust their shrine of earthly hopes. 
And the successive departure of the fair " sisterhood of flow- 
ers," followed by the consignment of the withered leaf to its 
kindred earth, most emphatically echoes the melancholy strain, 
" Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death ! " Thus do 
the sad changes of nature become the priestesses of God's 



238 MISCELLANIES. 

earthly temple, revealing, by their oracular sayings to the 
listening spirit, the deep mysteries of life. Each season has 
its images of joy and sorrow, of renovation and decay, of 
life and death, alternately touching the chords of the imma- 
terial spirit, and making it vibrate in answering tones of 
happiness or misery. Spring is not a season of uninter- 
rupted brightness, to delude man with chimerical visions of 
unmingled felicity on earth, nor autumn one of perpetual 
gloom, to close for ever in his breast the sweet blossoms of 
hope, and make him the child of despair ; so no mortal des- 
tiny, however bright, but hath some dark cloud to mar its 
ethereal blue, some serpent to coil around the loveliest 
flower ; nor, blessed be the Giver of good ! none so dark but 
some faint star of bliss may pierce its gloom, no heart so 
reft and desolate, that hath not some sweet spring of com- 
fort welling up in the sterile waste, making for the fainting 
and weary spirit a little oasis, that the world knoweth not 
of. If the sepulchral echo may ever and anon be heard 
amid the bowers of spring, and the festal glories of sum- 
mer, let it teach the votary of pleasure, and the devotee of 
the world, the baseless fabric of their temporal enjoyments ; 
w T hile the bright gleams of sunshine that beautify the deso- 
lation of autumn, shall speak of comfort to the sorrowing 
heart, and of a pure drop of bliss, even in life's mingled cup. 
True, the forests are now despoiled of their " coronal of 
leaves," and earth's verdant covering shows the footprints 
of the destroyer, yet, as if in sympathy with grief, the soft, 
mild rays of an autumnal sun play over the desolate 
grounds, and smile through the shorn and dismantled 
branches as sweetly as when revelling amid the magnifi- 
cence of summer. How beautiful an emblem of undying 
friendship ! Can the heart that has deeply and fervently 
loved, ever stray from the object wherein it had garnered 
its hopes and happiness, when the winds of adversity have. 



REFLECTIONS ON AUTUMN. 239 

despoiled that object of every external charm, and desola- 
tion and sorrow marked it for their own ? Never ! The 
ray of pure affection is like the loving sunbeams, that, while 
they light up and smile upon the landscape, teach it to for- 
get the vernal bloom and loveliness it has lost. How like, 
too, is this brightness of nature in her desolation to that 
faith, that can throw over earth's barren and desert scenes 
the hues of heaven, and illume the loneliest pathway thereto 
with a gleam from that " better land." Thus may all sea- 
sons, and the changing aspects of the material world, con- 
tribute to the moral education of him who reverently walk- 
eth amid the majesty of nature, and listeneth to her deep 
melodies that the delicate nerve of the inner spirit can alone 
discern. And, though the autumn winds may sing their 
melancholy dirge over the wreck of summer's loveliness, 
his mind, baptized in the pure fountains of knowledge, 
knows that no particle of all that Deity hath created can 
know destruction ; but that the elements even of the " sear 
and yellow leaf," shall again reappear under the skilful 
hand of heaven's inimitable artist, in new combinations of 
beauty and grandeur. Thus will the contemplative mind 
be awed " by the great miracle that ever goeth on, — ' the 
perpetual work of creation, finished, yet renewed for ever;'" 
and in the very bosom of human frailty will read the glori- 
ous truth, " that death shall be swallowed up in life, and the 
mortal be clothed with immortality." 



TO MY MOTHER. 



They tell me thou art dead, — 
That life, with all its heritage of woes, 
With thee is o'er. That thou hast yielded up 
Thy spirit to thy Maker, — e'en to that God 
Whom thou didst choose, in life's fair, cloudless morn, 
To be thy portion and thy treasure here, — 
Thy everlasting all beyond the grave. 
And did he then forsake thee, when the night 
Of sorrow brooded o'er thy soul, and clouds 
And darkness quenched each ray of earthly hope, — 
When fell consumption fastened on thy frame, 
Made its abode the citadels of life, 
And hung its fearful signals on thy face, — 
The eye's unearthly lustre, with the brow 
Of settled paleness, — and the hectic rose, 
That blooms but for the grave ; — when suffering 
And pain — death's sad precursors — had fulfilled 
His stern commission, and prepared the way 
For the approach of the all-conquering one, — 
Did he forsake thee then, and leave thy soul, 
Whose faith in his almighty arm had been 
Its fast bound anchor 'mid the storms of life ? 
Ah no ! They tell me that thy dying bed 
Was a rich feast of wisdom, — that thy hopes 
Were strong and bright, and pinioned for the skies, — 



TO MY MOTHER. 241 

That dove-like peace her pure and angel wing 
Had folded on thy brow ; that from thy lips 
The words of trust and holy confidence 
Did fall like precious pearls ; that he, thy God, 
Would be the guardian of the stricken ones, 
Who wept around thy bed, — yea, and of her 
Who, far away, thy pillow might not smoothe, — 
Nor clasp thy hand — nor pour her burning tears 
With kindred ones — nor listen to the voice, 
Whose heavenly teachings, and wffose last farewell 
Had made her memory's treasure. 

Is it so ? 
And art thou gone, my mother ? Shall I ne'er 
Again behold thy cherished form, to which 
My childhood clung in fond and trusting love ? 
Nor listen to the voice whose tones had power 
To soothe my soul in sorrow, — calm its fears, 
And throw a halo o'er my darkest days, — 
Ne'er gaze upon thine eye, in whose dear depths 
A mother's love lay hidden ? Never more 
To feel thy tears of joy upon my cheek, 
When after absence I returned to meet 
Thy fond embrace, — nor, at the parting hour, 
To hear invoked upon thy cherished child, 
Heaven's richest blessing ? 

Alas ! my home ! 
The one dear spot of all the earth, to which 
My memory clings, — the gathering place 
Of those affections, warm, and deep, and pure, 
That ever make the spring-time of the soul, — 
How shall I meet thee more ? Will it not seem 
As if the " silver cord " that bound my heart 

21 



242 MISCELLANIES. 

To that most loved and sacred spot, was loosed, 

The " golden bowl " was broken that contained 

My soul's fond treasure ? — as if heaven's light 

Had fled with her sweet smile ? — each household thing 

Be gifted with a voice, to wake to life 

Slumbering memory ? — to tell the heart 

Of its bereavement, with a power to probe 

Anew its bleeding wounds? Will not each face 

Wear that sad look, more eloquent than words 

To speak of her, whose ftep no more is heard ? 

Will not our meeting strange and mournful be, 

In silence and in sorrow ? and my soul 

Be crushed to earth beneath its mountain weight 

Of lonely solitude ? 

Be still, my heart ! 
Rely on him whose sovereign word is pledged 
Ne'er to forsake the soul that trusts his love, — 
9 T was he who sent the arrow — bade thee bleed — 
That thou mightest know in sorrow's darkest hour 
Where lay the balm of consolation pure. 
She is removed — thy idol — give to God 
The worship that belongs to him alone* 



THE OCEAN MONARCH AND THE. 
OCEAN HERO SAILOR.* 



There is something in the vastness, the majesty, the awful; 
solitude of ocean fitted to inspire the soul with emotions 
more profound, more elevated, than those arising from a 
contemplation of any other portion of the workmanship- 
of heaven's Almighty Architect. With the voice of a. 
charmer she speaks, and her tones have power to sever the 
silken bonds of social and domestic life. Obedient to her.- 
mandate, the son exiles himself from the prayers and tears 
of a fond mother, — from the gentle sympathy of loving 
sisters, — from the strong ties of brotherhood with his fel- 
low man. The husband brushes from his manly cheek a 
tear, and bids adieu to the wife whom he has sworn to» 
shelter beneath affection's downy wing from life's roughness^ 
and care. The father tears himself from the child, whose- 
sweet innocence and helplessness have called forth those 
finer and softer sentiments, that like fairy flowers have 
crept into and beautified the rugged crevices of his sterner 
nature. 

All other relationships are for the time severed when 

* This noble vessel sailed from Liverpool, August 24, 1848, freighted 
with a valuable cargo, and having on board three hundred souls.. 
Scarcely had the breeze filled the sails, when the terrible announcement 
was heard, "the ship is on fire." Frederick Jerome, "the ocean hero/' 
belonging to the ship New World, risked without hesitation his life, and 
saved large a number of helpless persons from the burning wreck. 



244 MISCELLANIES. 

the mariner becomes the ocean's child. To her broad 
bosom he commits the floating tenement that shelters him, 
in the enthusiasm of confidence and hope. Her calm 
beauty in the stillness of repose, — her terrible sublimity in 
the rush of the tempest, — her crested waves, like ava- 
lanches from the mountain's brow, — the voice of the storm 
as it wantons with her breakers, all are to be to him hence- 
forth familiar as household words. 

With the magnificent panorama of the deep, with all her 
change, yet with all her immortality, — heavy with the 
flight of centuries, yet young and fresh as when the sons 
of God first shouted at her wondrous birth, — spread out 
around him ; the glorious sky overspread like a tent over 
all ; methinks there must be an expansiveness of soul, a 
magnanimity, a contempt of danger, a noble daring about 
the sailor, that such lofty images cannot fail to excite, 
and which are so rarely found in any other class of men. 

On land, the petty details of life, the traffic and ex- 
changes of business, the clashings of interest, the strifes, 
the emulations, weave their hardened coils around the heart, 
and man intrenches himself in his selfishness, forgetful 
of the broad claims of humanity upon him. Where he 
sees apparent want and suffering, he suspects duplicity, 
and thrusts back the kindly charities they elicited. What 
is fair and honorable in exterior, he fancies is only a mask 
to some hidden guile, and in all his commerce with his fel- 
low men, he assumes it as a truth, that noble generosity 
and self-sacrifice are virtues that exist only in the abstract, 
and laughs at the folly that would attempt to make them 
pass current among men. 

Even the calm security and quiet happiness of home, re- 
fining and mellowing as it may be in its influence, may 
foster only an enlarged selfishness, when man forgets the 
great truth, that in every man he is to recognize a brother* 



THE OCEAN MONARCH, ETC. 245 

But the true son of the ocean cherishes a soul capacious 
as the element he braves. Living as he does continually 
in the presence of danger, he clings not with undue te- 
nacity to a life that a rising wave may at any moment 
extinguish. Yet he has so learned the omnipotence of 
efforts in the hour of peril, that he can calmly devise 
expedients, and execute them with a reckless daring, when 
his own life, or those of his fellow men are at " the hazard 
of the die." The storm fiend may lash into madness the 
foaming billows beneath him, — it may shatter his frail 
vessel, and threaten to ingulf it in the angry waves ; 
but in the breast of the sea-taught mariner it produces no 
agitation. Calm, self-possessed, undaunted, he meets the 
danger and conquers it, or dies heroically in the struggle. 
If there be one act more than another that impresses us 
with a sense of the grandeur of our nature, and of inborn 
nobility of soul, it is such a deed of heroism as lately tran- 
spired on board the ill-starred ship, so vainly termed the 
" Monarch of the Sea." On that narrow theatre, superior 
beings might have looked and felt there was that in man 
that well might claim a near affinity with themselves. Im- 
agination may daguerreotype that scene ; but the poverty 
of words is impotent to the task. 

A poor sailor, unknown to fame, unthirsting for human 
applause or reward, from the free, generous, and magnan- 
imous impulses of his own soul, offered himself in sacri- 
fice, that he might rescue from the devouring flames, that 
were wreathing their tongues of fire around that doomed 
vessel, the remnant of its victims that despair had almost 
rendered maniacs. Beneath that burning wreck he stood 
like some heavenward commissioned angel, bearing from 
the very jaws of destruction woman in her helplessness, 
childhood unconscious of its danger, and old age paralyzed 
with the terror of the scene. When the claims of suffer- 

21* 



246 MISCELLANIES. 

ing humanity were all satisfied, when the life-boat had 
received her freight of souls, then was this vow performed, — 
then, and not till then, did he think of self-preservation. 
Here was true nobility in man, a nobility that puts to 
shame the pride of ancestry, the distinctions of caste, the 
assumptions of wealth. The vaunted heroism of the battle 
field shrinks away before it. 

The pomp and circumstance of war, the thirst for fame, 
and the dread of a coward's doom have intwined the brow 
of many a hero with the laurel crown, whose heart never 
thrilled to one lofty, disinterested impulse, whose hand never 
performed one act of generous self-devotion. Even the 
laurels of the purest patriots have been wet with the " blood 
of many slain," and gemmed with the widow's and orphan's 
tears. The statesman's civic crown has too often been pur- 
chased by the surrender of the noblest and purest sentiments 
of the soul ; but on the fame of this ocean hero there rests no 
stain to mar its lustre, — a purer and a nobler man never 
won. 'T is a golden chain, spanning the glorious element of 
his adoption, and proudly claimed by the Old World and the 
New. May both render to him the reward that is justly 
due to his heroic achievements ! 

But medals, and honors, and applause are but airy baubles 
compared with the calm self-consciousness of his noble 
deeds, and the sense of the high approval of Him, who 
graciously assures us, that " Inasmuch as ye have done 
it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it 
unto me." 



THE FLOATING CHURCH. 



Let the floods clap their hands, and o'ersweep 

The wild thrilling harp of the sea, 
Till the darkling chambers of the deep 

Give back the sounding jubilee ! 
For the Church of God doth walk the wave 

With a step all buoyant and free, 
Like Him who trod, the helpless to save, 

The storm lashed foam of Galilee ! 

Come hither, child of the ocean, come ! 

Earth hath no lovely haunts for thee, 
Where the roof-tree waves, and flow'rets bloom, 

Ah, points not there thy destiny? 
Thou hast seen the maniac tempest rage, 

Where thy fleet, gallant barque hath trod, — 
And on the broad sky's glittering page, 

The lightning, ecriture of God. 

His glory, the grand and solemn main, 

In the pomp of its flowing stole, — 
As a true High-Priest, in nature's fane, 

Hath proclaimed to thy list'ning soul ! 
But here thou shalt catch that softer strain, 

That awakens the lyres above ! 
Of heavenly song, the sweet refrain — 

To the guilty — " mercy and love ! " 



248 MISCELLANIES. 

Then hasten, oh seaman bold and brave, 

To man the sacred ocean-ark ! 
Fear not the storm, nor the crested wave, 

It is the Saviour's glorious barque ! 
His cross-blazoned banner floats a mast — 

His own right hand is on the helm — 
Full swiftly life's billows shall be past, 

And anchor cast at glory's realm ! 

Xet the floods clap their hands, and o'ersweep 

The wild thrilling harp of the sea, 
Till the darkling chambers of the deep 

Give back the sounding jubilee ! 
For the ark of God doth walk the wave, 

With a step all buoyant and free, 
Like Him who trod, the helpless to save, 

The storm-lashed foam of Galilee. 



REST IN THE LORD. 



Rest in the Lord, ' tis the only sure anchor, 
When the wild waves of sorrow over you roll, 

Yield not to despair, that terrible canker, 

That corrodes and destroys the strength of the soul. 

Rest in the Lord, when the riches he gave you, 

On wings of the morning their fleet course have sped, 

In mansions of bliss, bright treasures await you, 

More rich than the wealth of proud ocean's dark bed. 

Rest in the Lord, when health's blushing roses 

Turn pale on thy cheek, and the life-lamp burns low ; 

The casket may fail, but the gem it encloses, 
No blight in its beauty immortal can know. 

Rest in the Lord, when the friends of thy bosom 
Are borne from thy sight to the desolate tomb, 

With white-robed spirits they wander in heaven, 
Where the flowerets of life unfadingly bloom. 

Rest in the Lord, when the fond hopes are blighted, 
That brightened thy pathway in life's early morn ; 

If in the soul faith's pure beacon be lighted, 

Thy bark shall ride safely through billow and storm. 



250 MISCELLANIES. 

Eest in the Lord, when death's dart is uplifted, 
From whose aim unerring no aegis can save ; 

No victor is he o'er the soul, that is gifted 

With strength from the conqueror of death and the grave. 

Then rest in the Lord, for life hath no sorrow, 
That finds not a balm in his lifegiving word ; 

Though the night may be dark, a happy to-morrow 
Ever dawneth on him who rests in the Lord. 



WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 



In the death of this distinguished individual, humanity 
has lost indeed a friend, — society her proudest ornament, 
reason and virtue a great high-priest, to whom it was given 
to enter within the vail and hold that mysterious intercourse 
with truth, and catch those glimpses of human duty and hu- 
man responsibility so rarely seen by man. 

But is he dead, " whose glorious mind 

Lifts thine on high 1 
To live in hearts we leave behind, 

Is not to die." 

No, Channing can never die ! True, death has aimed at 
a shining mark, — nor has the archer missed his aim. But 
his unerring shaft has but pierced the fleshy tabernacle, and set 
the spirit free. He needed no longer to stay. His errand 
to earth was accomplished, — the goal had been reached, — 
the unfading wreath had been won. The great principles 
which should direct man in his search after truth had been 
unfolded ; his inherent greatness and dignity had been im- 
pressed upon him ; the torch had been lighted to guide 
him through the mazes of his own dark and doubtful specu- 
lations ; the curtain had been lifted from the temple of 
beauty, and her heaven-born lineaments revealed to mortal 
sight, and the noble and excellent in human character por- 
trayed with a master-hand. 



252 MISCELLANIES. 

For strength, originality, and vigor of thought, for rich- 
ness of imagination, for force and energy of style, for beauty 
and command of language, for profound reasoning and con- 
vincing argument, for elevated and comprehensive views, 
where shall we find a writer like Channing ? His thoughts 
cannot enter the mind without imparting to it something of 
their own purity and excellence, without leaving behind a 
luminous track, potent to dispel the shadows of narrow and 
contracted thought. They fan the spark of divinity within, 
kindle into a holy flame the generous emotions of the soul ; 
reveal to it a consciousness of its wondrous capabilities, and 
the great end of being and action, and incite it, by the high- 
est and purest motives, to the fulfilment of its sublime des- 
tiny. He employed the noblest gifts that humanity may 
boast, in the noblest of all objects, the advancement of his 
race in knowledge and excellence. 

In himself he seemed to combine all those qualities whose 
union is so rare, and which form, when united, so perfect 
and harmonious a character. Ever the friend of man, 
whether in the palace or the cottage, whether in chains or 
breathing the pure air of freedom, in the retirement of the 
study or laboring in the workshop or the field, he regarded 
him as a candidate for a never ending existence, and forgot 
the adventitious circumstances of his condition in the nobler 
remembrance of his destiny. The cry of distress never fell 
upon his ear unheeded ; the tear of sorrow never met his 
eye unpitied. The moral, the social, the intellectual ad- 
vancement of his fellow-beings found in his glowing pen an 
eloquent advocate ; the cause of philanthropy an unwaver- 
ing friend. His piety was of that beautiful and consistent 
character that made his influence so hallowed, so extensive, 
so deeply felt. His whole life was a golden volume of 
moral precepts. 

Though a controversialist, he wielded his able pen with 



WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. 253 

candor and sincerity, alike a stranger to that rancor of feel- 
ing and personal invective that too often sullies the sword of 
Christian warfare. As a theologian, he cherished and de- 
fended what are considered by the majority of Christians as 
radical errors, teaching us the mournful lesson of the falli- 
bility of human reason, and her proneness to lead astray 
him who would endow her with too absolute a sovereignty 
over the souL And though none can deny the very inti- 
mate connection between sound principles of belief and a 
holy life, yet the bright patterns of excellence left by all 
religious denominations, teach us not to judge, lest we also 
be judged, and to cast over all whose tenets may differ from 
our own, the mantle of heaven-born charity, remembering 
that in this imperfect state, we see but through a glass 
darkly, and that it is only in that wider and nobler scene of 
things that our mental vision will be so perfected as to take 
a full and comprehensive view of all that pertains to us as 
immortal beings. Truly to be pitied is that mind that would 
close its narrow vision on the soul-ennobling truths that 
sparkle on every page of this gifted writer, lest he might 
find some opinion on the difficult questions of theology at 
variance with his own, — that would refuse to raise the cur- 
tain that conceals from his view prospects more boundless 
in extent, more rich in variety, more glorious in hue than 
his fancy had ever conceived, lest some object might meet 
his eye not in harmony with his preconceived ideas of 
beauty, and with the wondrous whole. Shall the priceless 
mines remain unexplored, because some worthless ore may 
be found ? Shall the magnificent worlds, that night reveals 
to the uplifted eye, fail to inspire emotions the most grand 
and elevated the contemplative mind can experience, be- 
cause some cloud be wandering in the firmament ? 

As an author, let Channing be impartially read, and 
while his errors are rejected, let his merits be acknowledged, 
22 



254 MISCELLANIES. 

his excellences admired. Such a mind is an honor to our 
country, — a glorious legacy. It is a jewel to be proudly 
worn. May his spirit be a guiding star, his worth appre- 
ciated, his influence felt. 



SACRED WORDS TO "OH, COME TO ME." 



Come unto me, and bring with thee 

Thy heart's first love in life's young morn ; 
In days so bright, I '11 be thy light, 

And with my truth thy soul adorn. 
I died for thee on Calvary, 

And freely shed my precious blood ; 
That thou might'st know the joys that flow 

From pardoned sin and peace with God. 

Come unto me, when life with thee 

No more a smile of beauty wears, — 
When sorrow's blight hath quenched its light, 

In blasted hopes and burning tears ; 
Then come to me, for I to thee 

A friend will be, and refuge sure ; 
I '11 dry thy tears, — dispel thy fears, 

And bring thy wounded heart a cure. 

Come unto me, and bring with thee, 

Oh, weary soul ! thy grief and care, — 
In all thy woes, on me repose, 

And seek my aid in earnest prayer ; 
I '11 lend my ear, nor fail to hear 

The faintest moan within thy breast ; 
Then look above, in truthful love, 

And find in me thy peaceful rest. 



256 MISCELLANIES. 

Come unto me, when death at thee 

His brandished dart doth fiercely aim ; 
Thy Saviour 's near, then do not fear 

The gloomy vale that leads thee home. 
Bright angels wait, at heaven's gate, 

To welcome thee, my ransomed one ; 
And thou shalt praise, through endless days, 

My grace that hath the victory won. 



LA PERLE. 



The pearl ! 'T is a gem of rare beauty and exceeding 
worth ! White as the light, yet unfolding the rainbow's tints, 
— pure and transparent as the dew-drop fresh from the 
rosy fingers of the morning, and withal precious enough for 
the regal brow ! Gently doth its sweet name touch the 
slumbering chords of many a fond recollection of happy, 
trusting childhood, when we fully believed in and longed for 
the fairy gift of " talking pearls," and envied the maiden 
who, by her gentle kindness, had won for herself so glorious 
a dower. Meet emblem is it for affection in its sanctity, — 
for the tear that flows in sympathy for human woes, — for 
the guilelessness and truthfulness of the heart, ere it has 
been stained by a breath of the world, — yea, for what the 
Lofty One doth most highly value, — the purity of holiness. 
Surely there are some, even in a world where fair decep- 
tion is the passport, to whom we might truly say with the 
poet, 

" No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water, 
More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee." 

Beautifully have the gems of thought found their type in 
the pearly wealth of the ocean's depths. Like the diver, 
who wrestles with the sea for its hoarded treasures, doth 
genius bring up from the " passion fountains " of the soul 
its costly merchandise, more precious than the golden freight 
of royal argosies, and destined to be wafted from land to 
22* 



258 MISCELLANIES. 

land, from mind to mind, till it becomes the splendid patri- 
mony of enlightened man, and his legacy to future ages. 
Ah, lovely are the pearls that inwreathe the queenly 
brow of beauty, and glisten with a starry radiance from the 
waves of her golden hair ; yet wealth alone . may purchase 
them. More to be desired than much fine gold are the gems 
from the treasure caves of thought, yet the delicate vision 
of taste alone can discern and appreciate their beauty. But 
there is a gift more estimable far than these, that asks no 
sacrifice of wealth for its possession, no vast acquisitions of 
intellectual lore to decide its value, — a gift potent to impart 
strength and elevation to the soul, by implanting in it the 
noble sentiment of duty, and leading it to make a holocaust 
of selfishness on the altar of philanthropy ; that dries the 
tears of sorrow by explaining the deep mysteries of grief; 
that interprets nature by revealing its Author ; that allies the 
spirit in which it is inshrined to the pure intelligences of 
heaven, and leads it, as by a silken thread, through the 
mazy labyrinth of life, — yea, which can throw a charm 
over the tomb itself, making it seem but a chamber of re- 
pose from which to arise and put on the garments of im- 
mortality. Would ye know the name of so wondrous a 
treasure ? ■ Tis called, in the Book of Wisdom, the " pearl 
of great price ! " Heir of an unending future ! Sacrifice 
it not idly in worldly pleasure, like Egypt's voluptuous 
queen ; imitate not " the base Judean, who threw a pearl 
away richer than all his tribe ! " Religion is thy breast- 
plate, — wear it in the arena of life, and when the conflict 
is ended it will prove a golden key to unlock for thee the 
pearly gates of that heavenly city whose foundations are 
precious stones, whose streets transparent gold, .and whose 
celestial light is the glory of its king I 



THE MEMORY OF THE BEAD. 



It is in my heart of hearts, that I bury my dead. In 
vain may ye tell me, that some have gone down into the far, 
far depths of the ocean wave ; that some in foreign climes, 
away from their childhood's home, by the aid of the stran- 
ger's hand have found their peaceful resting-place ; that 
some, beneath the green turf of my distant native land, have 
closed their eyes in that long, dreamless slumber, whose 
spell no charm *can break, save the light of the resurrection 
morn. When I ask for the friends of my youth, no airy, 
undefined echo dare answer, where ? But from the sanc- 
tuary of my own soul, — from its consecrated ground, a still 
small voice comes up, sweet as the breathing of an angel's 
lyre, " they are here — they are here." From their hal- 
lowed remains I am never torn. No change of time, or 
place, or circumstance, no worldly cares or restless anxiety 
bid me leave the spot their presence sanctifies, or dry the 
tears of sorrow that meet the world's cold gaze, and return 
its deceitful smiles. The flowers I have planted on their 
graves, the vine my hand has taught to twine affectionately 
over them, know no seasons in their luxuriance. The frost- 
breath of autumn may pass like the angel of death over the 
pride and glory of the garden, leaving naught but a sad 
wreck for the windingsheet of winter, of what seems too 
beautiful to die. 

But upon the blossoms of the heart, sacred to the holy 



260 MISCELLANIES. 

dead, no blight dares to fall. Equally they gleam upon me 
in their soft, pale beauty, and send forth their perfume, 
whether the rosy-footed Spring is abroad upon the earth 
with her chaplets of green and her hours of gladness, or 
Winter sings the requiem of the year. They languish not 
for the "garish sunbeam," nor fold their bright petals in 
sorrow, when its loving smile is withdrawn from the " beau- 
teous race of flowers." Ah, no ! they are no vassals to the 
inconstant sun, or the capricious shower. The heart has its 
• own dew, its own sunbeam, yea, its own rain, to keep them 
in perennial beauty. 

At the pensive hour of twilight, when the shadowy vale 
of darkness seems to rest upon and spiritualize all material 
objects, I especially love to repair to these hallowed graves, 
to refresh their flowerets with the tears of memory, and hold 
with the dear departed that sweet, mysterious intercourse 
that is a glimpse of heaven. For it cannot be that our 
communion with the dead is a mere idle reverie — a fond 
ideal — a baseless chimera. Far from me the cold ration- 
alist, who would dart the arrow of ridicule at this beautiful 
hope, that seems to the stricken and sorrowful soul a " mes- 
senger bird " from the " spirit land." 

When absorbed in the temporalities of existence, and 
weighed down beneath its burden of cares and responsibil- 
ities, — when, in our fierce conflicts with temptation, we feel 
that we are wellnigh vanquished, who can tell then the 
heavenly influence which sometimes descends and rests upon 
us like a dove, — suddenly restoring to the soul the remem- 
brance of its high destiny, and revealing the worthlessness 
of what it had pursued with so much ardor, — an influence 
not born of objects around us, and whose cause we vainly 
endeavor to trace ; — who can tell that these words of lofty 
import, which fall so sweetly on the ear of the inner spirit, 
may not have been whispered by some spirit friend ? Not 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 261 

a day passes that this mysterious voice does not breathe 
words of celestial comfort to the sad in heart. I hear it 
when my soul is scorched and scathed by the lava waves of 
sorrow, burying beneath them every bright hope that had 
root in the soil of earth ; when, in my struggle with a 
selfish and unfeeling world, I find my armor broken, and 
my spirit faint and disheartened ; in the silence of solitude 
and the hush of night, when I would hold converse with 
thought; in the gay and heartless throng, when in my 
very soul I feel what it is to be all alone ; in the midst of 
the enchantment of Nature, when the soft wind awakes 
in the forest leaves a thousand iEolian voices ; when the 
song of the rivulet is fallen upon my ear ; when I gaze into 
the deep blue fathomless sky, or watch the clouds with their 
silvery beauty, or gorgeous magnificence, moving like fairy 
shapes over its resplendent surface ; — above all, when the 
stars look down upon me from their far-off homes, with their 
calm and tender eyes, ever, ever may my listening soul 
catch the tones of the spirit voice, telling me of a land more 
rich in loveliness than imagination with her glorious hues 
has ever painted ; at whose pearly gates no care or sorrow 
knocks for admittance ; where the blight of selfishness never 
falls upon the sensitive and trembling spirit ; where the sol- 
itude of the heart is unknown, and its deep longings satis- 
fied ; where the pure earth enfranchised spirit shall find what 
it has vainly sought below — some twin spirit whose thoughts 
shall blend with jts own like the perfumes of sister flowers, 
and whose mutual affection shall melt into one, as the rain- 
bow's lovely hues dissolve into the light of heaven. Ah! 
it is even so. With many voices do they warn us, the holy 
departed. " We press upon the brink haply of unseen 
worlds, and know it not. Yes, it may be that, nearer than) 
we think, are those whom death hath parted from our lot." 
The loved and lost, they are around us everywhere.. 



262 MISCELLANIES. 

'T is no illusion. The heart has mysteries of its own, which 
it alone can penetrate ; oracles of wisdom that proud, self- 
sufficient reason cannot interpret. Let us repair more fre- 
quently to these sacred Delphi, and catch those responses 
that shall bring light into the soul in the darkness of life, at 
which the boasting realist may smile, but want the power to 
comprehend. If it be indeed true that we are never alone, 
that those whom the outward eye discerns not are still 
present with us to encourage and soothe, and lead to heaven, 
oh, let us never forget that this blessed intercourse that we 
love is Only between kindred minds, — let it lead to an 
assimilation on earth to the pure intelligences above, — to 
the culture of high and holy thoughts, — to noble principles 
of action^ — to- disinterestedness of purpose, — to all those 
virtues which angel spirits recognize as emanations of their 
own bright sphere. Verily, that can be no dangerous il- 
lusion, no debasing superstition, which makes the heart 
better, which strengthens us to support life's wearisome 
pilgrimage, which restores to the drooping flowers of this 
vale of tears their lost freshness and fragrance, which 
lifts the soul into a serene and ethereal element, and opens 
its every portal to the admission of those glorious truths that 
concern its high destiny. Yes, 't is in my very heart that I 
have inshrined my dead ; and, while it shall thrill to the 
harp of memory, the farewell word shall not be spoken, nor 
the pangs of separation known ; and when the silver cord 
shall be loosed that binds my soul to earth, God grant that 
it may be gently borne by the loved who have gone before 
to their own bright home, where the glass through which we 
have darkly seen shall become the purest transparency, and 
the full and perfect sympathy of congenial spirits shall add 
new charms to the bliss of heaven ! 



THE VARIETY STORE. 



" But evil is wrought by want of thought, 
As well as want of heart." 

Strange, is it not, that so large a share of the happiness 
or misery of a human being is dependent on the character 
of those with whom he may come in contact in the ordinary 
concerns of life ! The heart is a delicate instrument of 
many strings, which to the soft touch of kindness and sym- 
pathy sendeth forth ever its sweet harmonies through the 
whole being ; or uttereth the melancholy music of its break- 
ing cords, when roughly swept by the thoughtless hand of 
selfishness. Until the day when the books shall be opened 
wherein are recorded the secrets of our earthly existence, 
never shall we know how many budding hopes we have 
remorselessly trampled to the dust, that asked of us but a 
little fostering care, a single beam of kindness to have 
made them, like some sweet floweret of the vale, that in the 
maturity of its loveliness opens its bosom to the sun, and in 
return for his cheering warmth yields up in gratitude its 
very soul, a fragrant holocaust to its benefactor. Never 
shall we know how many noble purposes we have unmean- 
ingly frustrated, — how many pure rills of human felicity 
we have unwittingly turned into waters of bitterness. 

Dost wonder, friend of mine, that my thoughts should 
have donned so sombre a drapery at the sight of that sweet 
country home, that nestles so peacefully amid the dark 



264 MISCELLANIES. 

green foliage of its sylvan guardians, beneath whose droop- 
ing boughs sleep the sunshine and shade, as if to remind of 
those mingled joys, that alas ! are not stranger guests in the 
homes of earth ? Thou shalt not wonder long. Seat thy- 
self by me on this green knoll that commands a view of the 
charming portico, inwreathed with flowering vines that 
seem ambitious to reach the very summit of the cottage they 
adorn, bearing proudly aloft their precious little burdens of 
beauty and perfume; or take my arm in the spirit of 
friendly converse while we ramble amid the woodlands that 
skirt the cultivated grounds around, — so tastefully adorned 
that poetry might wander enamoured through their winding 
paths and sheltered arbors, exacting tribute from all bright 
things and fair with which to weave her web of golden 
fancies. 

Rested thine eye ever upon a lovelier spot ? I grant it is 
not one of those sumptuous mansions where pride sits por- 
tress at the gate, and empty ceremony invites within a fre- 
quent throng to a participation of every joy save those over 
which the heart presides. Ah, no ! In many a more splen- , 
did residence have I been a guest, but this was a home of 
peace and love. At richer banquets have I set me down, 
but here was elegant and ample hospitality. In drawing- 
rooms more gorgeously and brilliantly furnished have I 
sought the happiness the world offers, but here was tasteful 
arrangement and that air of comfortable ease that stops 
short of magnificence. Elsewhere have I found louder 
pretension and warmer profession in friendship's cause, 
but here was a truthfulness and sincerity, a heart-warm 
cordiality, that stamps as genuine the currency of noble 
natures. And as I have gazed from yonder window, be- 
neath which thou seest the clustering roses, on this river 
winding majestically through its rich meadow lands, ever 
and anon revealing itself to the eye like some mine of pre- 



THE VARIETY STORE. 265 

cious silver just escaped from its dark abode to meet the 
glorious sun and melt beneath his glance ; on the dim out- 
line of the far-off mountains that seem to invite the thoughts 
away from the pleasant scenes of earth to happier ones ill 
heaven. I have seemed to realize my beau-ideal of an 
earthly paradise, and fancied it just the Eden I would like 
to call my own. 

God be blessed for mountains ! I would have my home 
in sight of the everlasting hills, whose " heaven built galler- 
ies," like the angel ladder of patriarchal vision, link heaven 
to earth in harmony, and make this little globe of ours a 
neighbor to the skies. But let me turn from nature, fasci- 
nating as she may be in her varied loveliness, and full of 
that delicate sympathy for us in all our changeful moods, 
that the world does not always offer, to talk of human 
hearts that have struggled nobly, albeit to the superficial 
observer as it were vainly, — that have labored and waited, — 
hoped and endured, — yea, have been made perfect through 
suffering. 

Dr. Carver, the owner of this delightful retreat from the 
noise and bustle of our large and busy city of brotherly love,. 
w T as the son of one of the most wealthy and respectable 
citizens of Town, who together with an elder brother inher- 
ited at the death of their father his unincumbered and 
ample estates. Having availed himself of the choice ad- 
vantages for an acquaintance with medical science for 
which our good city is so renowned, from the benevolent 
impulses of his own generous nature, he nobly resolved that 
although independent, activity and usefulness should crown, 
his future life. 

My first acquaintance with him commenced several years 

after his marriage with the lovely and accomplished Mary 

Lay ton, who, although an orphan and destitute of fortune, 

had been carefully and judiciously reared by a widowed 

23 



266 MISCELLANIES. 

aunt, under whose gentle guidance she had become all that 
is estimable in woman. To yonder beautiful home he 
brought his charming bride, and never did youthful lovers 
bind themselves by the irrevocable vow under happier 
auspices, or with more substantial hopes of the purest 
felicity that wells up from the troubled fountains of earth. 
With a perfect harmony of taste and feeling, — worshippers 
alike of the beautiful and true in nature and in art, — living 
for and in each other, yet not unmindful of the claims of 
common humanity, or still higher obligations to the Author 
of good, — surrounded by all the little elegancies of art 
which betoken refinement and cultivation, which give such 
a charm to an existence otherwise happy, though often mis- 
taken as themselves the sources of that felicity that springs 
alone from the deep wellsprings of our inner being, — 
with life's bright firmament so prophetic of unclouded days, 
so rich in the heart's inestimable wealth that taketh to itself 
no wings, save those dovelike ones that waft it back from 
the world's dark waters to its own sheltering ark of home. 
I say, with such blessings in possession, what golden dreams, 
what bright imaginings must have hovered like angels 
around the sanctuary of their hearts ! What a roseate hue 
must have mantled upon the nectar of life's cup for them ! 
The great groan which creation uttereth in her travail of 
pain and woe was all unheard, save perchance a few faint 
echoes like the far-off murmuring of the sea, which softly 
blendeth with the harmonies of our being. 

It was later when I first knew them. The summer of 
18 — found me an invalid in yonder pent-up and populous 
city, whose thousand roofs and glittering spires loom up 
faintly in the distance. Every one knows, who has been 
shut within his own walls, or threaded the crowded streets 
of a town, teeming with a busy population, in the hot 
season, when he looks up to avoid the glare of a burnished 



THE VARIETY STORE. 267 

pavement, looks down dazzled with the bewildering sheen of 
brassy heavens above, at length closes the eye in disgust at the 
legion of disagreeable sights that haunt his progress at every 
step, when pallid and anxious faces tell of careworn existence, 
and the rapid step of business is heard responding to the 
calls of interest and hastening forward to his haunt of gain, 
— squallid and tattered poverty looks up with premature de- 
cay written in fearful characters upon the brow, — in fine, 
when every sense seems the inlet of painful emotions, how 
eloquently, how passionately does the soul plead against this 
impoverishment to which she is subjected, in the unnatural 
excitement and false glare of city life ! Our whole nature 
yearns for the green fields and dancing rivulets, the wood- 
land shades and solitude of rural life. Yes, even in health, 
deeper glows the cheek, and the eye kindles with new lus- 
tre as we anticipate an interval of release from the busy 
temporalities of artificial life, which hang upon us with a 
baneful influence, as I have seen the dense parasitic moss 
of a southern clime sap the strength of a noble tree and 
enshroud it in its own pale drapery. But to the invalid, in 
whose veins the tide of life creeps sluggishly, whose languid 
gaze and feeble step appeal to the heart of sympathy, how 
life-inspiring, how almost galvanic, the sweet dream of the 
health-breathing airs of Nature's wild domains. How we 
long, in the sweet language of the Voices of the Night, to go 

" Into the blithe and breathing air, 
Into the solemn wood, 
Solemn and silent everywhere ; 
Nature with folded hands seemed there 
Kneeling at her evening prayer, — 
Or where the denser grove receives 
No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves, 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 
The shadows hardly move." 



268 MISCELLANIES. 

Here in this quiet, charming villa I called upon Hope to 
fulfil her sweet promises of the vigorous step, the elastic 
spirits, the warm, bright hue of returning health. But ah ! 
the beautiful deceiver, like many another votary, how long 
I called in vain ! The balm-laden zephyrs fanned my cheek, 
but stole not the lily therefrom ; they cooled my burning 
brow, but left no gift of strength behind. Anticipating no 
solacement from further medical aid, which I had hitherto 
found fruitless, — disappointed in the fond belief that the 
pure influences of country life would be potent to stay the 
progress of disease, and say thus far and no further shalt 
thou go, and yet with that strange tenacity with which we 
cling to a life of suffering and are thankful for the boon of 
existence, even though it may be fraught with anguish of 
body and soul, I consented that Doctor Carver should be 
called in, of whose professional skill and rare success I had 
heard much. Wert thou ever an invalid ? Then thou 
knowest how wildly the heart flutters in its alternations be- 
tween hope and fear, as the poor, trembling, nervous patient 
awaits the coming of one whom he fancies the deputy of 
Fate, commissioned to utter the terrible words, Dust thou art, 
or, Arise, take up thy bed and walk. 

Numerous engagements delayed him beyond the appointed 
hour, and as I sat by the open window in my comfortable 
fanteuil, clad en-'m valid, never did I feel so disposed to 
chide the little gold repeater I held in my hand for its un- 
pardonable sluggishness in bringing the wished-for moment ; 
and in my capricious mood, anon I felt vexed that its deli- 
cate machinery should move on thus swiftly, and, as I 
thought, unfeelingly careless of my doom. But the hours 
and minutes were at length all fulfilled, when my door turned 
upon its hinges and the physician was announced. 

My imagination had already delineated him as a little, 
bustling sort of a man, with nostrums enough for a hospital, 



THE VARIETY STORE. 269 

a generous phrenological elevation of self-complacency, and 
sure I was that he would start back with ominous astonish- 
ment at my pale and sickly visage and attenuated form, in 
which dramatic attitude I should legibly read my irrevoca- 
ble sentence. Avaunt, thou miserable caricaturist ! imagi- 
nation mentally ejaculated. I '11 none of thy impertinent 
picture writing more. I will calmly wait realities in time to 
come, for surely never were preconceived notions more at 
war with truth. Before me was a tall and superb figure, a 
countenance whose distinctive characteristic was that manli- 
ness that seems to concentrate in itself the exercise of all 
noble qualities, pervaded and softened by a delicate and un- 
assuming sympathy for human suffering, that beamed from 
a mind illumined eye, reminding of ilie gentle air of spring, 

As from the morning's dewy flowers it comes 
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy 
To have it round us. 

With an easy gracefulness of manner that bespoke a 
knowledge of the world, he kindly saluted me ; and without 
assuming that peculiar business air that seems to say, My 
visit is a professional one — please hasten to the point and 
give me a list of your ailments, he mad€ a few passing re- 
marks on the beauty of the country at that lovely season, 
and noticing on my table a little bouquet of charming wild 
flowers, which a friend had left there that they might tell 
me "a tale of the joyous woods" in their own sweet dialect, 
he said, I will not ask you if you are fond of flowers, they 
are among the objects that all love, for they appeal to the 
purest and holiest sentiments of our nature ; they are the 
illuminated manuscripts of a God of love, in whose delicate 
tracery we read his wisdom, goodness, and paternal care, 
for surely their gentle and fragile lives are sustained by his 
almighty energy, and clad in raiment more gorgeous than 
23* 



270 MISCELLANIES. 

the spirit of beauty ever lavished upon a monarch's robe ; 
may we not believe implicitly that his intelligent creatures 
are the far dearer objects of his fatherly goodness ? How 
consoling the thought that w T e are never forgotten by him 
who has infinite resources at his bidding, — all blessings at 
his command. This confidence gives us strength to accept 
cheerfully all the allotments of his providence, whether 
sickness or health, joy or sorrow ; and severing a violet 
from its blue-robed sisterhood, he proceeded to show how, 
the simplest flower, that timidly opens its dewy eye to the 
.morning, is in itself a little volume of mysteries which, 
when interpreted by the eye of taste and a mind enriched 
with scientific lore, discourses most eloquently on the glori- 
ous attributes of the great Artist, whose wondrous creations 
imock at the efforts of human skill to imitate the un- 
imitable. 

Needless to say, the rich bursts of enthusiasm from his 
highly gifted intellect had operated like a diluted lethean, 
making me quite forgetful of the sensation of languor or 
suffering. A passionate fondness for my favorite study, 
seemed awakened ; and I inquired, with an eagerness unfelt 
through months of weariness, Does the neighborhood fur- 
nish specimens of interest for botanical research ? It is un- 
usually rich, replied he, and seldom do I return from my 
professional excursions without some addition to my already 
varied collection ; and when you feel yourself strong enough 
to take a little jaunt in the country, I will send my carriage 
round for you, and Mary and my little Ida shall accompany 
you. They, too, love flowers, and in your collections and 
the picturesque scenery around us, I dare say you will find 
yourself invigorated in body and mind. I feel much better 
already, sir, said I, and fancy I could ride with only a 
trifle of fatigue. Yes, but do not smile, patient listener, at 
the milder tone my malady had already assumed, and the 



THE VARIETY STORE. 271 

unwonted strength of the before drooping invalid. Necro- 
mancy there was indeed in the change, but it was that 
necromantic power that consists in a deep knowledge of 
Hygeia's laws, in which so few of her priesthood are initiated. 
He believed in the liberty of the soul to work miracles, and 
when it can be persuaded to use its own high prerogatives, 
few are the drugs of the apothecary called to aid. With a 
quick perception of an adept in his art, he had seen in his 
patient a desponding spirit, whose foreshadowings were dark 
as night, jealously watching and nursing every prestige of 
disease, closing a deaf ear to the sweet minstrelsy of nature 
and the glad voices of hope, and spurning the gentle solici- 
tations of the thousand comforts and blessings, that in the 
saddest of human conditions would court the despairing 
heart and seduce it from its sorrows. Through the soul he 
had touched the springs of life, and the harmony of her in- 
tricate, delicate organization was being restored. A few 
simple tonics remained upon my table after his departure, 
which my kind nurse prepared to administer. Ah, thought 
I, would that all whose high mission it is to visit the cham- 
ber of sickness and alleviate the ills of suffering humanity, 
could speak words of comfort and hope to the disheartened 
spirit, — could inspire serenity and resignation by pointing 
to that Being who tenderly sympathizes in the sorrows of 
his children, and chastens but to sanctify ! AVould that all 
had power to inspire the undying spirit with the conscious- 
ness of its own superior dignity, that it should not only 
break from the thraldom of bodily infirmity, but assert its 
own heaven-derived title of sovereignty, and make disease 
itself its vassal ! Physician, forget not the compound being 
of him to whom thou art called to administer. Bribe, with 
words of cheerfulness and hope drawn from the true sources 
of enjoyment, the soul to cooperate w 7 ith their offices, then 
shall success more frequently crown thy efforts, and the rich 



272 MISCELLANIES. 

reward of human suffering diminished be about thee, a man- 
tle of gladness, all thy days. 

The next time Dr. C. visited me he led by the hand his 
little daughter, a sweet child of some seven summers, and 
said to me, I have brought Ida to see you. She is full of 
prattle and gaiety, and I hoped she might divert you from 
the sad thoughts that will haunt us in sickness, in spite of 
our own unaided efforts. Do not allow her to trouble you, 
but if you can find any amusement with her, she will be 
very bountiful of her company whenever you desire it. A 
world of thanks, Dr. C, exclaimed I, in the gratitude of my 
heart; with such a companion I shall cease to think myself 
afflicted, and drawing her to me, I kissed her pure and 
lovely brow, and pressed her tiny hand in mine, sealing an 
affection that from that moment never knew interruption. 

Children are excellent physiognomists, and in the ex- 
pression of my eye she had read herself beloved. So soon, 
so fondly is childish fondness enlisted, that when her father 
said, Come, Ida, put on your hat, child, we must go, she said, 
with a beseeching look, May I not stay a little while longer ? 
I will not trouble the lady ; and I, seconding her request 
said, Yes, please leave her, sir, I will send her home safely. 
Consent was given, and with such a charmer, the hours 
passed by unheeded. 

The very personification of grace was Ida Carver. With 
a countenance that might have been modelled from a 
cherub ; with those intense blue eyes, that hide a world of 
meaning in their expression and betray the soul within, and 
hair, oh ! such hair, why a very shower of bright sunny 
curls hung upon her fine head, laying about her white 
shoulders like a fountain's descending spray upon the pure 
marble it bathes. Her voice was all melody, soft and sweet 
as those tones which the serial spirit awakens in its own soft 
lute. What could I do but love her ardently, passionately, 



THE VARIETY STORE. 273 

devotedly? If a day passed without the smile of her 
presence, without her soft arms around my neck, that day 
was sad and spiritless, — the dark angel returned to the 
deserted mansion, bringing with him seven other worse than 
himself. Indeed she had become necessary to my happiness, 
and soon I found myself drawn out to breathe the fresh air 
of the morning at her gentle entreaty, or to take a stroll 
through the garden walks to see the opening flowers and 
hear the blithe carol of the birds, that filled the very air 
with the gushes of their wild improvisation. Health, so 
long wooed in vain, no longer refused her gladdening influ- 
ences, — the zephyrs now brought healing on their wings. 
The goblet of life again effervesced with hope and gladness ; 
— and earth, dismantled of her sombre hues, in which a 
morbid fancy had invested her, again appeared in the fresh- 
ness and beauty of her primeval dawn. None but a conva- 
lescent can realize the ecstatic emotions of restored blessings, 
which are like the migratory birds that have left us in the 
winter of our desolation, only to return with a richer plu- 
mage — a sweeter song. 

The monotony of the day was now agreeably interrupted 
by the morning walk or ride, in company with my sweet 
pet and her lovely mother, on a visit to some of the benev- 
olent establishments that adorn the suburbs of the marble 
city and throw over it that mantle of moral beauty whose 
rich embroidery bespeaks the fair hands of heaven-born 
Charity, or perchance an excursion to the charming Wissa- 
hickon, where the sylvan deities still hold their court on the 
very border of Fashion's and Mammon's domains ; or by a 
ramble in pursuit of some of the beauteous sisterhood of 
wild flowers, whose gentle lives were to be sacrificed, and 
their remains to be embalmed in my botanical repository. 
Thus passed a series of happy days, each cementing more 
firmly the links of a friendship commenced on their part in 



274 MISCELLANIES. 

sympathy with suffering, on mine in gratitude for the most 
disinterested kindness, and admiration for the purest and 
noblest qualities in human character, that breathe of Eden 
ere the fall. 

Years passed on, and often and long was I a guest at the 
cottage. Ida had grown up to be, if possible, more beautiful 
and gifted even than the rich promise of her childood be- 
tokened. The idol of her parents, she had yet been judi- 
ciously reared, and taught continually both by precept and 
example, those grand moral lessons without which talent 
is a fearful dower, and beauty a rose without perfume. 
Though an only child, her wayward fancies had not been 
allowed to rove at will, — on the contrary, she had early 
learned that lesson, so needful for woman, a noble self-sac- 
rifice for the good and happiness of others. In addition to 
the best advantages of school education, her fine mind had 
received that home culture, that blends and harmonizes all 
other acquirements, and, like the skilful grouping of a pic- 
ture, gives to each its relative place and importance, and to 
the whole, a beautiful and unbroken unity. It had ever 
been the object of Dr. C. to make his daughter a useful and 
practical woman ; and though born to fortune and inde- 
pendence, to enrich her mind with those solid acquirements 
and habits of self-reliance, that might save her from despair, 
should poverty or misfortune be her destiny, and be to her 
an unfailing source of comfort and peace in those dark days 
of life from which wealth can procure no security. Fortune, 
everywhere capricious, said he, is especially so in a coun- 
try like our own ; and the tenure by which we hold her 
gifts exceedingly precarious. The immediate ancestors of 
the rich man to-day, are too poor and menial for his narrow 
recollection ; and children on whose birth both honor and 
affluence attended, have worn the livery of servitude and 
drank the cup of penury. I cannot insure my fortune to 



THE VARIETY STORE. 275 

my daughter, therefore would I bequeathe to her a legacy 
that circumstance cannot depreciate ; that adversity cannot 
destroy. Noble minded man! would that, every one born 
to the lot of woman had such a father! What bitter pan^s 
of disappointment, — what voids within the soul, — what 
wearisome hours without solace and without support, 
would often be spared those who, from the revolution of 
fortune's wheel, have found themselves the subjects of 
necessity's unyielding law ! 

But for Ida Carver, rich in youth, beauty, talent, and 
fortune,— the sunlight of a home of love, — the charm of 
society, what "death-telling seer" would have dared to have 
arrayed her future in any hues, save the gorgeous ones of 
her own bright imaginings ? Yet even now, were the dark 
threads selected to be mingled with the web of her life ; 
clouds yet invisible in her brilliant sky were even now 
gathering to involve her day in an almost rayless night. 

It was a soft, balmy morning in summer ; and we were all, 
save Ida, assembled in the pleasant breakfast parlor to 
enjoy the lengthened social meal, and in the intervals of 
our delicious coffee, that talk-exciting beverage, to read and 
discuss the news of the morning papers. Soon Ida joined 
us in her snow-white wrapper, her luxuriant hair impris- 
oned in one of those delicately simple caps, that give such a 
charm to a lovely face. As a vision of beauty, she appeared 
before us ; and I fancied I saw an expression of joyful sat- 
isfaction on the face of her parents, as she filled up the little 
circle and bade us good-morning in a voice " musical as 
silver bells." The meal was still in progress when a mes- 
senger arrived, announcing to Dr. C. the complete destruc- 
tion of his city property by a fire which was still raging. 
He had just invested almost his entire fortune in town resi- 
dences, eligibly situated, which promised to yield him in 
rents an ample income ; and each day since the purchase, 



276 MISCELLANIES. 

had intended to secure them by insurance, which a pressure 
of professional duties had hitherto prevented. Thus, by one 
stroke of calamity's iron hand, had his inheritance been 
swept away forever. At this sad intelligence I arose to 
leave the room, feeling that a disaster so sudden and over- 
whelming might call forth, even in minds so well forti- 
fied by religion's armor, weaknesses and infirmities of our 
nature that should be unwitnessed. Be seated again, said 
Dr. C, in a calm and untremulous voice ; we now have an 
opportunity to test the sincerity of our daily prayer, " Thy 
will be done on earth as it is in heaven." God has taken 
us at our word to make us feel that He alone is the Sover- 
eign Arbiter of events, and has a perfect right to reclaim 
his gifts, seeing perhaps that they are stealing our hearts 
from Him, who will accept no divided homage. Then 
taking the hand of his wife, whose silence, more than words 
could have done, showed that she felt the blow that was to 
fall less heavily on herself than on her worshipped child. 
Mary, said he, our fortune is gone, but God in mercy has 
taken what we could best spare, leaving us all most needful 
to our happiness. He has left us each other ; our endeared 
home ; some friends that adversity cannot cool ; and the 
means of still obtaining the comforts of life, and the essen- 
tials to enjoyment. I have health, and the profession 
which has hitherto served rather to fill up life with useful- 
ness will now answer a double purpose, and also afford us 
independence. You and my dear Ida, he continued, shall 
know, while health is spared me, no diminution of the ele- 
gancies of life ; and if some of our summer friends should 
desert us, why, we will cling only the more fondly to each 
other and the tried few who yet remain, and our wreath of 
happiness shall be fresh and fadeless as before. A few 
bright, warm tears, not of regret, but of joy, left their holy 
fountain to rest upon his hand ; and the smile that played 



THE VARIETY STORE. 277 

over the still lovely features of the wife, and the words " I 
want no more," were eloquent in revealing how trifling is 
the value of all other treasures, compared to those ines- 
timable gems that lie hidden in warm, truthful, loving 
hearts. 

The next two years brought no apparent change to the 
family of the cottage, save wearing a deeper channel for 
those warm affections, that flowed onward in gladness and 
melody. But, alas ! that the good should be the stricken 
ones of earth. Alas ! that the citadel of the soul that has 
once been stormed by calamity seems ever after more ex- 
posed to its attacks, and, like the ruthless invader, rests not 
till he has sacked and left desolate the fortress that has once 
yielded to his arms. I had seen the golden charm, to which 
mortals cling with such tenacity, fade away like the dewy 
garniture of the morning, and no wail of sorrow, — no mur- 
mur of discontent broke upon the peaceful serenity of the 
cottage home. But how find words to paint the agony, 
the desolation, the despair, that filled that hitherto happy 
abode, when the husband, the father, the almost worshipped 
protector and guardian was brought home from one of his 
professional visits a senseless paralytic ! God has indeed 
passed by in the whirlwind, and every hope and every joy 
earth-rooted seemed riven and blasted in the fierce tempest. 
To have breathed words of -comfort then, would have been 
a mockery. There are some calamities that fall upon the 
spirit with a crushing, deadening weight, leaving the soul 
astonished and confounded, nay, stupefied with the greatness 
of its woe, — when even the soft pleadings of religion and 
the gentle voices of sympathy are all unheard, and nought 
but the holy dew of time can give strength to arise and put 
on the garments of resignation. Such was this. For Mrs. 
Carver the shock was too overwhelming, and nature sunk 
beneath the load. A violent and dangerous illness suc- 

24 



278 MISCELLANIES. 

ceeded, and life's many-stringed harp seemed about to utter 
its soft melody on eartli no more. 

But as the warrior, who weaves bright fancies from 
chivalry's romantic page in the soft indolence of peace, starts 
from his dreams and arrays himself for the fierce battle 
whose thunder has aroused him, so did Ida Carver — a 
being so dependent and trustful in prosperity — nerve her 
spirit for a conflict that demanded a nobler heroism than 
that of the tented field. Her native strength of character 
burst from the silken coils, a charmed life had woven around 
it, and the rich fruits of early culture now clustered upon 
the young tree and mingled with its blossom. As a supe- 
rior being she moved through that stricken house, now 
lending her gentle ministration to an impotent father, anon 
bending over the couch of a suffering mother. Her soft, 
white hand smoothed the pillow of sickness, bathed the 
burning brow, presented the healing drug, and prepared 
the delicate beverage. The day to her was one long act 
of self-sacrifice, — the night of anxious watchfulness; yet 
she, who had been ever a stranger to bodily toil and corrod- 
ing care, betrayed no look of weariness or suffering. A 
calm serenity played over her features ; a tranquil dignity 
at upon her brow. Her only prayer had been for life, — 
the life of the two beings who seemed in their turn to depend 
alone on her for support and comfort. She had not dared 
to ask for more, so great seemed the boon she craved ; and 
when at last health and strength revisited one parent and 
the mind of the other became clear and cloudless, though 
disease still held the body prisoner, in the fulness of her 
gratitude she seemed to feel an intensity of enjoyment 
which uninterrupted prosperity never knew. 

So true is it, that when unvisited by sorrow we are uncon- 
scious of our bliss, while our deepest, our most ecstatic joys 
arise from contrast after suffering, doubt, and fear. Strange 



THB VAMETX BTOBB. 279 

it may be, yet I have sometimes thought the felicity of 
heaven might want vitality and intensity if unmingled with 
tears. With Doctor C. the hope of restoration to active 
life seemed chimerical. The nature of his disease, the 
severity of the attack, forbade the indulgence of any fond an- 
ticipation, save that he might for some years be spared to 
Ins family as a friend and counsellor, though no longer able 
to labor for those he loved. Mrs. Carver was now suffi- 
ciently restored to watch at the bedside of her husband ; 
and the faithful Ida had once more leisure for rest and 
restoration. In one of these intervals she grasped my hand 
as we met in the garden walks, and said to me, Come with 
me to my room, friend of mine, I have long wanted a pri- 
vate interview with you ; and you will see I have a little 
plan to reveal, which your wisdom may think unwise; yet 
nevertheless you will be my counsellor, will you not? Most 
assuredly, my dear Ida, replied I ; command me to the 
whole of my kingdom, I am entirely at your bidding. 

To her little boudoir we repaired, and seating herself by 
me she said, You see the misfortunes that have fallen upon 
us ; first, the loss of our fortune, which we scarcely felt 
while richer blessings remained; then the illness of my dear 
father, that has left no hope of a future restoration to health 
and usefulness. Though he has never spoken of our worldly 
condition, often in his dreams have I heard him allude to it, 
BO mournfully and bitterly as to convince me that it is the 
burden of his thoughts by day. 1 have health and the 

ability now to labor for those to whom 1 have heretofore 

been indebted for all my blessings. My resolution is taken; 
henceforth I live but for one object — to supply my dear 
parents by my independent exertions with their accustomed 
comforts while they live, and to retain in our possession the 
home which has always been BO deal" to us. In the world you 
have had more experience than J, — tell me in what way 



280 MISCELLANIES. 

you think I can best attain my object. I at once began to 
remonstrate, and show how impossible I conceived it to be 
for one so young, so delicately and luxuriously bred, so un- 
learned in the world's selfishness, to go forth into the walks 
of business, to come in contact with the rough points of hu- 
man character, and to struggle for what had hitherto been 
hers without an effort. Only men, endowed by nature with 
sensibilities less acute than ours, or women reared to life's 
sterner duties, can do this successfully. But how could you, 
Ida? 

Tell me no more of this, said she, interrupting me ; in 
the sadness of my thoughts these considerations have all 
been presented to my mind, but they have not shaken my 
purpose. I feel myself strong to do what duty and affection 
alike prompt. I saw that I had mistaken her character ; — 
that there was that in her which the fires of trial alone 
elicit and purify ; that for her, suffering would consist in 
inaction. In the short silence that ensued I endeavored to 
think of some way in which an object so noble in concep- 
tion might be accomplished. Listen to my plans, says the 
heroic Ida, and give me your approval and aid in the exe- 
cution of it, if you deem it not visionary. You have said 
there was but one profession for a lady, and that is true ; 
but have you not observed how large a portion of the mer- 
cantile business of this city is transacted by our sex, and 
that, too, without degradation, and apparently with immedi- 
ate gain? Be not surprised when I tell you I have thought 
of opening a store for fancy articles, similar to Mrs. M.'s in 
Second street. A few days since when in town purchasing a 
few luxuries for my father, I saw a bill upon her store, and 
upon inquiry found that she had closed her business to reside 
in the country, having amassed a considerable fortune. Could 
I succeed to her place, might we not again be independent ? 
Will you do me the favor to break the subject to my father, 



THE VARIETY STORE. 281 

who would be so surprised to hear it from me that I should 
find myself unable to repel his objections ? My heart was 
full of anxiety for my sanguine, enterprising friend, but I 
yielded to her wishes ; and as no time was to be lost, has- 
tened at once to acquaint Dr. Carver with the plan of his 
daughter. Never, exclaimed he, when I had finished my 
unpleasant task, never shall my beloved child submit to this 
for me. Sooner, far sooner, would both her mother and 
myself become the recipients of public beneficence, than 
her gentle nature be thus exposed to the toils, the anxieties, 
the petty cares incident to business life. Oh ! for myself 
alone I could cheerfully have borne all the visitations of 
heaven ; but for Mary and her — here the husband and 
father wept. Tears, such as angels weep, gushed forth, pure 
and holy from the dross of earth, unstaining even man- 
hood's cheek. The struggle within was severe, but soon a 
thoughtful calmness settled upon his features, and I con- 
tinued: You wish your daughter's happiness? Self-sacrifice 
for her parents' sake, exertion for their comfort under pres- 
ent adverse circumstances, can alone secure it. Forbidden to 
do this, she will yield to your wishes, but her spirit will prey 
upon itself, and dwell unceasingly upon the sorrows that she 
believes herself able to alleviate. Consider the subject in 
all its bearings, and talk with Ida herself upon it. Not 
many days elapsed before I was again called to the former 
place of consultation, and with tears of joy Ida announced 
to me that she had finally obtained a reluctant consent from 
her parents ; and that by her father's permission she had 
written in his name to an acquaintance of his, a dealer in 
fancy goods in New York, for such an amount of stock as 
she had thought sufficient to make a beginning in trade, on 
which her father had engaged to make the largest payment 
his previous small accumulations would warrant; the re- 
24* 



282 MISCELLANIES. 

mainder she would soon be able to make from the profits of 
her sales. 

The next day I accompanied Ida to town for the purpose 
of renting the store in question. A carriage landed us in a 
remote part of the city before a low, dingy, disagreeable 
dwelling, which we had learned was the residence of the 
landlord with whom we were to negotiate. Bell there was 
none, and the black, dusty knocker looked as if it was sel- 
dom molested. Is Mr. Scroots in? inquired I of an old 
dame who opened the door. "I reckon he may be," was 
the response. " If ye will walk in I will find him." 
We were accordingly ushered into a room whose obsolete 
and uncouth furniture spoke either of its owner's poverty or 
the miser's hoarded gains, — the external symbols of each 
being not unlike. Presently a little withered personage 
made his appearance, answering in all respects to the cog- 
nomen of Scroots. Miss Carver, said I, daughter of Dr. 
Carver, and granddaughter of the late Laurens Carver, of 
Walnut street. You knew him, perhaps ? " O yes, yes, 
fine old gentleman — good property, too. He and I knew 
each other right well as business men — landlords in a city, 
eh!" This young lady, continued I, anxious to spare my 
friend in her first essay in the world, has called to make 
some inquiries respecting the store to be rented in Second 
street, just vacated by Mrs. M. " A good situation that, — 
a fine place for making money; going to open a dry goods 
store, ma'am ? " A store of fancy articles, was the low and 
modest reply. " Well, well, Mrs. M. was an excellent ten- 
ant — paid rent very prompt — always expect my tenants 
to pay the day the quarter is out, for I am often in want of 
money, you see." Assuming some dignity, and repressing 
one half of the indignation this world-incrusted money-wor- 
shipper had aroused within me, I took it upon me to reply. 
Your rent shall be punctually paid, sir. After some further 



THE VARIETY STORE. 283 

tedious conversation we withdrew, bearing with us the key 
that was to admit my poor friend to scenes untried and new. 
In due time the store was fitted up and stocked with a va- 
riety of splendid and tasteful articles. Customers called 
and were received by the new tenant with graceful ease and 
modest demeanor, that in the commerce of business, as well 
as in the drawing-room, elicit the kindly feelings of the 
heart. 

From morn till night stood the fair young girl behind the 
counter, answering the many and impertinent demands of 
the numerous customers ; gentle to the stranger, wearing, 
with those who had known her in happier days, the calm 
dignity which conscious duty gives in every sphere of life ; 
and extending her hand to receive what was a just return 
for her toil, yet from which she shrank as instinctively as if 
it was unlawful gain. 

The rich and fashionable tossed about the tasteful goods, 
and murmured to each other their admiration of the beauti- 
ful girl who stood before them ; but none saw the vulture of 
anxiety preying upon the heart, or detected, beneath the fair 
and calm exterior, the noble spirit that fainted not beneath 
its burden of self-sacrifice. Soon Miss Carver's store be- 
came known as the resort of the fashionables, most of whom, 
being in the habit of purchasing on credit, insisted on doing 
so in the present case, otherwise they would purchase 
nothing. Wishing to make her sales as large as possible, 
Ida did not refuse, especially as she was generally told to 
send her bill at any time when she might want the money. 
A sufficient number of cash payments she daily received to 
meet all the wants of her beloved parents, and her own per- 
sonal necessities, reserving the large bills she had credited 
for the payment of rent and stock in trade. At length the 
day drew near on which she was to cancel her obligations 
to the landlord ; and having had a slight insight into his 



284 MISCELLANIES. 

gain-hardened, sordid soul, as well as from an honorable 
desire on her own part to meet all her obligations, she made 
out and intrusted to her collector her demands against the 
reigning belle, Miss Canon, — the dashing fashionist, Mrs. 
Ellmore, — the aristocratic Madam Lenaire, with several 
others of great wealth and pretensions. Reasoning from 
her own heart, and inexperience of the world, she doubted 
not that the desire to be just must always be coextensive 
with one's means ; yet with much trembling and solicitude 
did she await the return of her agent. 

In one of the most sumptuous mansions of Walnut street 
were heard the glad voices of festivity and mirth. The 
gas-lights poured out their flood of glory, which was reflected 
from a thousand glittering pendants and golden cornices, 
making its spacious and lofty saloons one scene of oriental 
magnificence. Through these floated fairy forms of sur- 
passing loveliness, clad in rich vestures, where velvet and 
lace, pearls, diamonds, and gold were all laid under contri- 
bution to the handmaidens of beauty's queen. As Calypso 
among her nymphs, more proudly than all, moved with ele- 
gant bearing the mistress of that lordly home among her 
assembled guests. But from that gay assembly no thought 
was wafted forth to the world of suffering that a large 
city incloses within its limits ; to the thousands whose daily 
lot is weariness and toil ; to the innumerable throng who 
are racked with physical suffering, with agony of mind, 
or sad disquietude of heart ; yea, life's groaning tide 
broke not upon that night's revelry, and every face was 
joyful and bright as if earth were still reposing in her 
Eden smile. 

On the morning of the day that was to end so gaily, Mrs. 
Ellmore had been called upon by Miss Carver's agent, who, 
in the most civil manner possible, made known to her that 
Miss C. would be much obliged if she would settle her bill 



THE VARIETY STORE. 285 

at that time. " Good Lord, what an account is this ! " ex- 
claimed she, tossing her head disdainfully ; " sure I am I 
have never had half of these articles, and who would have 
believed that such a person as I took her to be would have 
had the want of principle to have asked me such exorbitant 
prices. Credit, eh ! a pretty credit indeed — not three months 
since they were purchased ! Please tell Miss Carver," said 
she, handing back the bill, "that I am very busy this morn- 
ing, but I will soon call and settle with her, and in the mean 
time, tell her that any fear of non-payment on her part is 
quite unnecessary." And turning away abruptly, from that 
moment was the subject forgotten in the tumult of worldly 
excitement. Yet this woman was not wholly heartless. 
Could she have seen the disappointment, the suffering, occa- 
sioned by her refusal to pay a just demand, doubtless she 
might have allowed herself to be drawn a moment from her 
fancied urgent engagements, and listen to the pleadings of 
reason and conscience. But in the whirlpool of fashion- 
able dissipation was she borne onward ; and she, who had 
never known a want or a solicitude that a full purse was 
not at hand to gratify, how should she know what human 
hearts can suffer in a destitution of that golden dust that 
men worship ; or with what feelings of ardent gratitude 
the poor receive the tributes of justice? 

From this abode passed on the collector to the residence 
of another prouder beauty, but was told the family were on 
a visit to a neighboring city and would not return for some 
weeks ; to a third, where he obtained a small payment on a 
large bill, with the promise of the remainder in a few days; 
to still another, where a smaller demand must be excused 
till another month ; and thus, with little success, had he per- 
ambulated half the city, and returned to give the result of 
his mission. Unfortunately as the sad tale was falling upon 
her ear, and a hand of iron pressing upon her soul, who 



286 MISCELLANIES. 

should her eye rest upon but the scrawny figure of Scroots, 
who, with stealthy step, had entered. He overheard the con- 
versation. With a quick perception had he read the scanti- 
ness of her resources, and without the hypocrisy of civility, 
which he never used save when it hung upon him like an 
ill-made garment, in the presence of his superiors in wealth, 
this avatar of mammon placed himself before her, with an 
expression of mercilessness that would have awed a soul 
less firm than hers, and said, " Well, Miss Carver, I believe 
I have not made a mistake in the day I was to call for my 
rent — 'spose it's ready, eh ? " 

I am sorry to tell you, sir, that it is not ready to-day, 
though I have made every effort to meet my engagements 
promptly ; but if you will have the goodness to wait a few 
days, it shall be left at your residence. 

" A few days, madam ! If you will please tell me how 
muctt time that is, and when it will expire, I will call again 
for it." Ida faltered out, this day week, and when she 
again raised her eyes she found herself alone. 

Wearily passed the sleepless hours of that long night to 
my poor friend. Sleep was courted in vain, or if for a 
brief season it weighed down her tearful eyelids, it brought 
with it visions of unsuccessful schemes and broken hopes. 
God's equal eye looked down upon the bewildered votaries 
of pleasure, who drank her sparkling cup and feasted in her 
banquet halls, and on the lonely hearts and watchful eyes 
of adversity's stricken ones. But on the evil and the good 
arose the new created day, and with its returning light, 
Hope's golden beams broke in upon Ida's drooping spirit ; 
and action and effort again strengthened her heart. The 
day came round for the promised visit of the relentless 
landlord, and the exertions of Ida had enabled her to pay 
the demand, while in the mean time a still heavier one had 
been made upon her by the firm of whom she had purchased 



THE VARIETY STORE. 287 

her stock. What was to be done ? She felt that she had 
the means of honorably meeting all, and by efforts such as 
those alone can make where every interest is involved, she 
at length succeeded in meeting the first pressing demands 
for rent and stock. 

The peculiar trials and weighty responsibilities of the 
new position she had taken, now appeared in their true 
light ; but the noble Ida shrinks not from the difficulties in 
her way, — difficulties that might have seemed insuperable 
even to one whose life had been devoted to the details of 
trade. But filial devotion gave a directness to her efforts, 
supplied the want of experience, — bereaving care of its 
depression, makings labor delightful. 

A beautiful and holy sentiment is true filial devotion, — 
a willingness to sacrifice all in turn for those from whom 
the fount of life springs ; for those who first loved, tenderly 
watched, forgetful of all selfishness, prayed with the earnest- 
ness characteristic of holier natures, and guided each foot- 
step with jealous and untiring care. Such had been the 
guardianship of this noble girl, and such her appreciation 
and return. Three long years she stood at her post of duty 
in the mart of business, true to every principle of justice 
and honor, — true to every sentiment involved in the touch- 
ing and deep devotion of woman. She lived for the accom- 
plishment of a noble object, toiling unceasingly. Her suc- 
cess would have equalled her efforts, had it not been for the 
credit system, which in its bearing too often renders value- 
less financial tact, remorselessly sweeping away the toil of 
years. This system certainly proved the ruin of Ida's well 
laid and most generous plans, so untiringly pursued. Credit, 
yes, the credit extended to the fashionable, who too often 
by false appearances and promises made to be broken, 
defraud honest, persevering industry of its just reward. 
From the first quarter's meagre collection, it had proved the 



288 MISCELLANIES. 

greatest obstacle in the way of her success, and finally 
brought such heavy losses, that at the end of three years 
the enterprise was of necessity to be abandoned. Poor girl ! 
hard was the struggle, the result beyond her control. 

From her father, Ida could no longer conceal the diffi- 
culties of her situation ; who, disappointed as he was at the 
failure of efforts so nobly and disinterestedly made, had had 
too much experience in the affairs of men to be surprised 
at it. By his advice, and the embarrassments under which 
she suffered, she made preparations for closing her business, 
paying her creditors, and again returning to her parents 
just with the world, but again destitute of all wherewith to 
smoothe their passage to the grave. To retain their former 
home was now impossible, and to dispose of that, and seek 
some humbler abode adapted to their altered circumstances 3 
was the only alternative. 

At the United States Hotel was announced the arrival of 
a gentleman from Cuba. After dinner, in glancing over the 
morning papers, his eye met the advertisement of the sale of 
Dr. Carver's real and personal estate on the following day. 
Turning to a stranger who sat near him, he made sundry 
inquiries into the cause of the sale. The stranger, dis- 
covering an interest in the inquirer, entered into the 
details of the family history, — the misfortunes of the 
parents, — the generous self-devotion and heroic efforts of 
the daughter. 

The morning that was to see them deprived of all that 
had made home so lovely, yea, of that home itself, dawned 
sadly upon the inmates of the cottage. They had arisen at 
an early hour to make every necessary preparation for a 
day so trying; and apparently for the last time in that 
domestic sanctuary over which peace and love had so 
long joined their spread wings, to unite in blended prayer 
for strength equal to their trials, and for acquiescence to 



THE VARIETY STORE. 289 

the will of Him who wounds, with a father's tender love, to 
heal. 

To the surprise and disappointment of the vast crowd, 
who thronged the house, hoping to bear away at their own 
low estimate its beautiful and tasteful ornaments,, not a sin- 
gle article was allowed to be removed from its place. A 
dark, Spaniard looking gentleman was present whom none 
knew, who had outbid on every article, and purchased it for 
himself. In the same manner had the real estate passed 
into his possession. Thus at the close of that day no change 
was perceptible in the cottage. It had only changed owners. 
The crowd dispersed, and the stranger waited to meet the 
family. To Dr: Carver he introduced himself as his 
nephew, the only surviving son of his eldest brother.. Born 
on the island of Cuba, to which his father had early at- 
tached his fortunes, he had hitherto known nothing of his 
uncle's family, save by the occasional letters which had 
passed between the brothers. From these he had. learned 
to think of them with interest and affection ; and now that 
his own family ties were sundered by the recent death of 
his widowed father, he had resolved to journey thither,, 
hoping that a change of scene and the sympathy of kin- 
dred might soften and mitigate the poignancy of his grief- 
Need I say how warmly, how cordially he was welcomedi 
by his kindred ? The interest of natural ties almost at once 
seemed to ripen into the warmest and tenderest friendship.. 
In the free details of family vicissitudes the hours of the 
night wore away unnoticed. Dr. C. seemed again to see 
the features and traits of a brother once so dear to him ; 
and when Augustine Carver said, on their separation for the 
night, "My uncle, you will allow me to assure you that this, 
loved home, so long the abode of happiness, is again your 
own," never was sorrow so suddenly turned into joy — never 
family so blest. None could reply, for tears filled every 

25 



290 MISCELLANIES. 

eye, and grateful joy silenced every tongue. Each retired 
to rest, but not to sleep. Young C. found his soul filled 
with tumultuous feelings before unknown. He had believed 
to see in his fair cousin his ideal of woman. He had known 
her but a few hours, but these few hours had been active 
agents in kindling the flame of love within his heart. Her 
beauty, her intellect, her winning manners, her filial devo- 
tion so won his soul, that he felt that God had now for him 
but one blessing, sufficient in itself for his happiness, but 
deprived of which, all others were poor. And Ida, could 
she forget to be grateful ? And is not gratitude in woman's 
heart akin to love ? And when not long after in one of her 
long rambles she found herself joined by him, in whose gen- 
erous and manly heart was henceforth to be her throne, 
and her ear drank in his impassioned vows of truthful af- 
fection, the deeper tinge on her blooming cheek, and the 
tear-dimmed eye, assured him that love's eloquent language 
needed no interpreter. 

The wheels of time have made since many a revolution ; 
those who watched over her infancy and guarded her youth 
have gently passed away from earth to a better home ; but 
peace and happiness in all her relations have been the rich 
dowry of my friend. In the circles of the great she moves 
with courtly grace, and like an " earth-treading " stay 
among that sacred class — God's poor on earth. From her 
own deep experience in the trials of affliction's children, she 
knows how to render timely aid to the suffering, and to 
speak words of comfort to the wounded heart. Often has 
she assured me that more than all the elegance by which 
she is surrounded, does she value the practical lessons she 
has learned in the school of adversity ; and with a beaming 
smile lighting up her fine features in the eloquence of deep 
feeling and holy trust she touchingly says, If dark clouds 
gather around thy pathway,, be hopeful and calm. Live 



THE VARIETY STORE. 291 

still for humanity ; live in the exercise of an unselfish devo- 
tion for the near and cherished, and Heaven's best blessings 
shall distil around you charming as light, crowning with 
serene beauty and peaceful happiness a life of generous 
self-sacrifice. 



TRUE RELIGION. 



A TALE FOR YOUTH. 



I love children ; and for the entertainment and instruc- 
tion of my young readers, I relate the following simple, but 
truthful story. 

I once knew a very rich and beautiful lady who lived in 
a handsome house in one of the most pleasant cities of our 
country. She had a great many servants ; she sat down 
every day to a table covered with every delicacy and lux- 
ury that money could purchase, — and those of my little 
friends who have walked through a city market will well 
remember how many different vegetables they saw, — what 
a variety of meats, and what delicious fruits and sweetmeats 
greeted their eyes at every step. Well, this lady could en- 
joy them all, and as she had much gay company, she or- 
dered her steward every morning to bring for her table the 
choicest things the market afforded. Could you have gone 
into her house you would have seen the softest, richest car- 
pets, the most splendid mirrors, velvet sofas and lounges, 
damask curtains and very costly paintings, with marble stat- 
ues here and there, looking so lifelike that you would think 
they could speak to you. And when night came, her beau- 
tiful parlors were lighted w T ith gas, which blazed forth from 
the glittering chandeliers with such a dazzling light as threw 
a charm over every object around. Then the soft tones of 
her harp or piano, both of which she played very exqui- 



TRUE RELIGION. 293 

sitely, would steal in rich melody through the gorgeous rooms, 
making one quite forget that there was any such thing as 
sin or sorrow in the world, and almost realizing one's ideas 
of an Eastern paradise. 

You will say, " How charming ! surely she must have 
been very, very happy ! " Ah, well do I know how delight- 
ful all these things seem to the young, and how apt are our 
deceitful hearts to whisper, that if God had only given them 
to us, how full of joy would be our hearts, — how blest, 
how satisfied. And truly this lovely lady had at her com- 
mand all that this world can give for the promotion of hap- 
piness. But more than her magnificent house, her numer- 
ous servants, ever ready to do her bidding, or her carriage 
and horses, that were ever ready to take her into the green 
and beautiful country when she had become weary of the 
town, — I say far more than all these did she delight in a 
sweet little daughter that God had given her. 

Her Emma was at this time six years old, and her eye 
was full of light and gladness, her step sportive and elastic 
as the young fawn's, and her laugh more wild and melodi- 
ous than the spring bird's warbling, when it welcomes the 
return of leaves and flowers. Her fond parents doated on 
her young beauty and her thousand winning ways, and 
when they saw the bloom of health on her cheek, and 
marked her joyous spirits, they loved to follow her through 
long years of life, and fancy that when they were grown 
old and infirm they would find in her their comfort and sup- 
port. My dear children, how different were God's purposes 
from theirs, and how often he sees it is best to remove our 
earthly blessings when they steal our affections from him, 
and fix. them on a world where there is nothing, however 
beautiful, that can last, nothing, however lovely, that can 
make us truly happy ! 

Mrs. Elmore, — for that was the name of the lady of whom 
25* 



294 MISCELLANIES. 

I have been telling you, — one charming afternoon of autumn 
ordered her carriage for a drive into the country to see a 
ifriend who had long been ill, and was as usual accompanied 
by Emma. This sick friend was a lady of great piety, and 
?the loveliness of her character shone so brightly in the afflic- 
tion she was suffering, that none, not even the most gay and 
; thoughtless who visited her, went away without feeling that 
i there is something in the religion of Jesus that can give 
peace and serenity in the greatest of trials, and diffuse a 
holy calm over the features, when the poor, emaciated body 
is racked with anguish, and the gloomy grave seems ready 
to open upon the sufferer. Mrs. Clinton had been in health 
;a friend to the poor, a comforter to the mourner, a teacher 
to the ignorant, and to all a kind and sympathizing friend ; 
;and now that she was laid upon a sick-bed, and about to 
enter into the presence of that Saviour whom she had so 
faithfully and affectionately served for a long series of years, 
the whole neighborhood seemed filled with sorrow. The 
young and the old, the rich and the poor, vied with each 
other in rendering her all that heart-felt sympathy which is 
so grateful to the afflicted. Day by day was her door 
thronged with anxious inquirers into every changing symp- 
tom of her disease, and joy would light up every face, or 
the tear would start to the eye, according to the nature of 
the intelligence respecting her. Often would the servant 
who had answered the bell find at the door the bearer of 
some rare delicacy or luxury sent with the hope that it 
might tempt the appetite that no more longed for earthly 
food. 

Slowly, but surely, was wasting away the fleshy taberna- 
cle, but more brightly rose before her spiritual vision that 
building of God, that " house not made with hands, eternal 
in the heavens," which she felt she was soon to inhabit, 
washed and sanctified in the blood that cleanseth from every 



TRUE RELIGION. 295 

earthly stain. Her mind, richly gifted by nature and highly 
improved by a superior education, remained unclouded by 
the disease that was preying upon her, and with all who 
were privileged to stand beside her sick couch would she 
converse, in tones of angel sweetness, on the preciousness of 
that Saviour who had ransomed her immortal soul, and 
whose blessed presence she now felt, when earthly friends 
could no longer give her support or consolation. 

To the young who loved to linger near her, she would 
say, laying her slender wasted hand upon their heads, or 
twining her pale fingers among their shining curls, — " You 
are now young, and life seems bright and beautiful before 
you ; you thirst for happiness, and trustingly look for enjoy- 
ment from this world ; but, my dear children, take counsel of 
one who has trod the path you are now treading, and 
who has drank deeply of all earth's sin-poisoned fountains. 
Let me assure you that this world's pleasures are at best 
transitory as the dew-drop of the morning, and when most 
enjoyed, they leave a yearning void w T ithin for more sub- 
stantial food ; and, when life's dark days come, as surely 
they will come upon all, the world will leave you without 
comfort and without hope. Seek, then, the Saviour of sin- 
ners ! Oh, who can measure the love with which he has 
loved you, a love so great as to lead Him to endure poverty 
that you might be rich, to bear the scorn and reproach of 
men that you might receive immortal honor, to endure the 
heavy curse of sin that you might be redeemed from its 
dreadful penalty; in short, to die a criminal's shameful death, 
that your pardoned souls may be purified and made meet 
for the glorious home of saints and angels above ! Hear 
Him saying, 

Come unto me, and bring with thee 

The heart's first love in life's young morn, 

In days so bright, I '11 be thy light, 
And with my truth thy soul adorn. 



296 MISCELLANIES. 

I died for thee on Calvary, 

And freely shed my precious blood, 
That thou might know the joys that flow 

From pardoned sin, and peace with God. 

When she had finished her tender and earnest admoni- 
tions, it was a lovely sight to see those fair young faces 
dissolved in penitential tears, some burying them in the 
bedclothes as if unable to control the fulness of their emo- 
tions, others clasping her friendly hand, and with upturned 
gaze imploring her to pray that they might meet her again 
in heaven, while she, exhausted by an effort beyond her 
feeble strength, would close her eyes in prayer, that what 
she had said might be sent home to the hearts of her lis- 
teners, by the influence of the Holy Spirit. 

The middle-aged, and those whose oil of life was well- 
nigh spent, — the man of strong mind, as well as the poor, 
ignorant servant girl who was in an agony at the thought of 
losing so excellent a mistress, all listened to her parting 
words, and wept and trembled at the earnestness of her 
manner, as she implored one and all, by the value of their 
undying souls, by Christ's agony and bloody sweat, by his 
cross and passion, to make sure their eternal salvation. 
It was in the midst of one of these thrilling appeals to the 
bystanders, that Mrs. Elmore and Emma entered the cham- 
ber. With a smile of friendly recognition, she took a hand 
of each, and continued the exhortations I have related. 
She seemed to realize that her time was short, and when 
she found her hearers hanging upon the words with deep 
interest, she did not allow the entrance of new visitors to 
interrupt her discourse. Thus had Mrs. Elmore an oppor- 
tunity of hearing, under the most solemn circumstances, 
those truths, which long after, in the prepared soil of God's 
painful visitation to herself, sprung up and yielded the rich 
fruits of a holy and devoted life. 



TRUE RELIGION. 297 

Surprised at finding her friend more feeble than she had 
expected, and thinking that very probably it might be the 
last interview she would have with her on earth, Mrs. 
Elmore lingered till all had left, that she might spend a 
few quiet moments with one whom she had long loved for 
the excellence of her character, though her own want of 
religious feeling rendered it impossible that she should truly 
appreciate her lovely and consistent piety. " Well, Mary," 
said the invalid familiarly to Mrs. Elmore, " God be blessed 
that I have one more opportunity of meeting you here 
below, and oh ! " exclaimed she, while a serious but serene 
expression settled on her angelic features, " oh that I 
could bless God that there was a certainty of meeting you 
in that heavenly world whither I long to go ! You have 
every amiable quality, my dear Mary, continued Mrs. 
Clinton, but none of these can admit you there" pointing 
upward, and raising her tearful eye. " A kind Father has 
given you extensive means of doing good; and I do not 
doubt but you have been willing to feed the hungry and 
clothe the naked, when you have known their need ; but if it 
has not been done out of love to a bleeding, dying Saviour, it 
will be of no avail to you. Without holiness, we are assured 
none can be His. But how difficult it is, in the midst of 
worldly prosperity, to feel the want of such a Saviour, I well 
know. It was not till he led me through the deep waters 
of affliction that I sought and found him, who alone can 
speak peace to the troubled soul. I trust, my dear Mary, 
it may never be necessary for him to send sorrow upon 
you to bring you to seek him ; but now, while all your 
blessings are spared, let his goodness melt your heart, and 
lead you to devote to his service yourself and all you have. 
Take this," she continued, handing Mrs. Elmore a small 
tract, "and should trouble ever come upon you, you may 
find in it that comfort it has already spoken to my soul." 



298 MISCELLANIES. 

Mrs. Elmore evinced much deep feeling as she listened to a 
voice that was about to speak on earth no more, and gazed 
on the bright vision of a saint ripe for glory. But seeing 
the shades of evening gather around, she rose to depart for 
home, and imprinting a tender kiss on the lips of the sick 
lady, and lifting up her little daughter to do the same, she 
bade her adieu, promising soon to see her again. As they 
stepped into the carriage to return to town, the setting sun 
was lingering on the verge of the horizon in his pavilion of 
gold impurpled clouds, as if unwilling to bid farewell even 
for a night to a world that seemed to rejoice in the light 
and beauty of his presence. 

A quiet and holy serenity rested on every object, invit- 
ing homeward the soul's busy and roving thoughts ; 
calming its tumultuous passions, and speaking in its still 
small but impressive voice of Him, who maketh the out- 
goings of the morning and evening to rejoice, and crowneth 
the year with his goodness ! A gentle breeze played amid 
the richly variegated foliage in which Nature loves, at this 
season to deck herself, as if to hide her too visible decay, 
while ever and anon some loosened leaf would flit to the 
earth on the wing of the wind, as if obedient to the man- 
date of " dust to dust." 

A few soft sounds would occasionally break upon the 
listening ear, such as the faint warbling of some solitary 
bird, the murmuring of some tiny rivulet that wound its 
way through the still green sward, or perchance the hum of 
busy insect; but all was so low, so sweet, so accordant with 
the sober scene and pensive hour, that they scarcely moved 
the finger from the lip of silence. Amid such influences, the 
gay and frivolous even would have felt disposed to medita- 
tion, for the spell of Nature was powerful. Even little 
Emma's joyous spirit was subdued, and that thought of 
which even a child is capable, seemed to awake within he r 



TRUE RELIGION. 299 

as she turned to her mother, saying, " Mother, I feel as if I 
wanted to pray. How I wish you could pray and talk like 
that sweet sick lady." 

This remark of her child startled Mrs. Elmore from a 
reverie which had not been broken by a word since leaving 
the house of her friend, and covering her face with her 
handkerchief, she thrust back the warm tears that spoke of 
a full and agitated heart. The scene she had witnessed of 
the perfect resignation, nay, the holy joy with which a 
Christian can anticipate the passage of the dark valley of 
death, the earnest appeals of her dying friend, together 
with the deep solemnity of the autumnal eve, all had ex- 
cited in her breast the most anxious thoughts concerning her 
own preparation for that solemn hour to which every thing 
seemed now to invite her attention. To Emma's remark 
she could make no reply, but drawing her little one closer 
to her bosom, " Why, my child, how cold you are ! Do you 
feel chilled ? " " Yes, mamma, I have been cold ever since 
we have been riding ; but I was so happy to see every thing 
so beautiful, I did not like to speak to ask you to wrap 
me up." 

With a mother's self-reproach at her forgetfulness, she 
folded her shawl closely about her child and took her in her 
arms, bidding the coachman drive rapidly home. As Mrs. 
Elmore reached her own comfortable rooms, she found tea 
awaiting her, and in answer to Mr. Elmore's inquiry why 
she had stayed so late and exposed herself to the chilliness 
of the night air, she related, with much emotion, the circum- 
stances of her visit. 

The family had retired as usual that night, but about 
three o'clock in the morning Mrs. Elmore was aroused by 
the nurse, saying that she wished her to come into the room 
where Emma slept as she was breathing very strangely, and 
she feared she was sick. In a moment the mother was by 



300 MISCELLANIES. 

the bedside of her child, and great was her alarm at discov- 
ering that little Emma had been seized with that fearful 
disease, the croup. With anguish of heart, she at once rec- 
ollected her exposure on the previous evening, and bitterly- 
reproached herself for not having been more thoughtful of 
her darling child, whose predisposition to this disease she 
well knew. She hastened to make Emma's alarming illness 
known to her husband, and a servant was without delay 
despatched for a physician. He was soon on the spot, and 
to the anxious inquiries of the parents, replied that the at- 
tack was a very violent one, but trusted that powerful 
medicines might arrest the malady. 

He had long been, not only the physician of the family, 
but their friend and confidant. 

Dr. Murray possessed a heart of great tenderness and 
sympathy for the afflicted, and he kindly remained by his 
little patient, watching the effect of his remedies, and vary- 
ing them with every changing symptom. Gloomily dawned 
the day upon the inmates of this sumptuous mansion, for the 
healing drug had proved thus far powerless, and the re- 
turning light brought no relief to the poor little sufferer. 
Oh ! the agony of those stricken hearts ! The father's deep 
grief showed itself by a mournful silence, while the mother's 
agony would ever and anon reveal itself by the suppressed 
sob, and by the rapid pace across the chamber, her hand 
pressed upon her heart, as if fearful lest the fast-beating 
prisoner should burst its confinement. 

Again would she pause, and glance her quick eye alter- 
nately on the doctor's anxious face, and on that of her 
gasping child, as if she must read her destiny, and yet so 
imploringly, as if he, who was only God's instrument for 
good, had it in his power to bid her sick daughter live. 

My dear young readers, if you have been fascinated with 
the grandeur and elegance of this sumptuous home, and 



TRUE RELIGION. 301 

fancied its inmates exempt from the many trials to which 
those of an humble station are exposed, come with me to 
the bedside of this sweet child, born the heiress to all that 
earth can give that is captivating to the worldly heart- 
Behold her gasping for breath, struggling Avith disease, and. 
writhing in pain, about to close her eyes on all that made life 
bright and fair. Behold her agonized parents ; they who 
had never knelt in prayer with the young being God had 
given them, nor taught her sweet lips to repeat the name of 
the blest Redeemer, whose heart so thrilled with love to* 
children, and whose arms were so often open to receive- 
them, now implored, with tears of anguish, the preservation 
of a life so dear to them of all that gave gladness to their 
dwelling, all that made earth to them seem lovely. Butr 
God's ways are not our ways ! In His providence, he saw 
fit to remove this fair young creature, ere she had become 
corrupted by sin, to a brighter and purer world. Oh, how 
willingly would they who so fondly doated on her, have 
relinquished all that had thrown such a charm over their 
earthly lot, — the luxuries of their proud home, their wealth, 
their all, if this fair blossom might but have been spared 
to their lonely path. But, alas, we must surrender what 
God sees fit to take, and how often is it the dearest ob- 
jects of our hearts ! And how secure we are apt to think 
all our possessions are when the brightness of prosperity is 
around us, and to forget that it is God's unmerited favor 
that continues them to us, and that at any moment he may 
recall his gift. Then allow not your hearts, my young 
friends, to envy the rich and great, since you see that dis- 
ease and pain, sorrow and death, enter as easily to their 
abodes as those of the humble poor. The elegant furniture- 
of Emma's sick chamber, the rich hangings of silken tapes- 
try, beneath which she lay in the agony of mortal suffering,, 
the vast wealth that bought her every luxury, none of these 

26 



302 MISCELLANIES. 

dazzled the stern messenger of Death, or turned him from 
his purpose ; but ere two swift days had rolled away since 
her pleasant ride to the country, he laid upon her his icy 
hand, and stilled her pulse for ever. Need I describe the 
mournful desolation of Emma's home, when the melody of 
her voice had ceased, and her sunny smile had passed away 
from earth ? No soft strains of music were now heard at 
eventide, no gay throng brought festivity to those lonely 
halls, no joyous laughter echoed its mirthfulness there, but 
the darkened rooms, the crape tied shutters, the fearful si- 
lence, broken only by some subdued voice, the bereaved and 
disconsolate father, the broken-hearted mother, clad in the 
sad habiliments of woe, all told Death had crossed the 
threshold, and the light had for ever departed. 

Mrs. Elmore found in her affliction no consolation. She 
could not see in it the chastisement of a Father's tender 
hand. She sought for comfort, but it came not. Life 
seemed a burden, death a terror she could not meet. The 
beautiful objects around her, so far from giving her any joy, 
served rather as a mockery of her woe. As she was one , 
day pacing the room with that vacant air that tells of a 
spirit crushed by sorrow, her eye rested upon the tract 
that had been given her by her dying friend, who, shortly 
after her visit, had calmly passed away, as melts the morn- 
ing-star into the clear lustre of the dawn. She had laid it 
aside on her return, where it had remained unthought of 
till now. She took it up, glanced at the cover, and read 
"Comfort to the Mourner." Its title, so appropriate to her 
own case, induced her to peruse it. 

She there read that there is a peace in the Christian's 
soul, even in the most terrible trials of our earthly lot, that 
God does not willingly afflict nor grieve his children, but 
graciously sends sickness and death among them, that He 
may lead them to place their treasures where no moth shall 



TRUE RELIGION. 303 

corrupt them, no thief destroy. She there, read of "the 
Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of the world,'' who 
says, " come unto me all ye that are heavy laden and I will 
give you rest," — rest from all your sins, — rest from all 
your sorrows. She seemed to hear the Saviour speaking to 
her in the sweet accents of mercy, and inviting her to re- 
pose her troubled soul on his sympathizing breast, to see 
Him pointing to that glorious world above, where all tears 
will be wiped away, all wounded hearts be healed, and a 
blessed reunion shall take place with those dear ones we 
have lost and mourned on earth. She closed the book, and 
with her hand elapsed to her burning brow, and her eye 
upturned to heaven, she seemed lost in thought. At length, 
starting up, she exclaimed, " A Saviour ! A Saviour from 
sin ! A Saviour from sorrow ! Is he not just such a Sav- 
iour as I need ? Oh, that I could call him mine ! Oh, that 
I could go to him with my sin burdened heart ! " 

And my dear readers, God did indeed hear the prayer of 
her who, in humble faith, had presented this little tract to 
one who then showed no interest in spiritual things. Mrs. 
Elmore's mind became deeply impressed with the importance 
of her soul's salvation, and diligently was she led to study 
that Bible, that had been to her so long a sealed book. 
She sought, in earnest prayer, for light to understand its 
truths, and for that true penitence of heart that would 
enable her to appropriate to herself its gracious promises. 
And He who says, ask and it shall be given you, seek and 
ye shall find, mercifully granted her petitions, and gave her 
that joy and peace that could lead her to say, in reference 
to her affliction, " the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
away, blessed be the name of the Lord." " Before I was 
afflicted I went astray, but now have I kept thy word." 
And though she still mourned for the sweet young creature 
whom her eye might never again behold on earth, yet now 



304 MISCELLANIES. 

could she, with a smile of serenity and hope, exclaim, glanc- 
ing upward, — " In yonder happy world lives my angel 
child, a snow white lamb gathered into the Saviour's fold ! 
In love has my heavenly Father taken her to himself ere 
sin had corrupted, or temptation assailed her ! Was I not 
teaching her, by my worldly example, to forget her God, 
and to seek her happiness where disappointment only can 
be found? Had she lived, who could tell but the seductions 
of wealth, the vanities of life, might have lost her immor- 
tal soul. Father, not my will, but thine be done. Thou 
hast done all things well ! " 

But the true Christian not only prays that God's will may 
be done, but that his kingdom may come on earth, and that 
a knowledge of a Saviour may be spread through every part 
of this sinful world, that every heart may love and obey 
him who has loved us with an everlasting love. Truly did 
Mrs. Elmore show the sincerity of her conversion, by ask- 
ing herself, What can I do for him who has done so much for 
me ? How can I promote his glory ? How can I be instru- 
mental in saving any precious soul for whom Christ died ? 
But never does the heart cherish a wish to be in any way 
useful to our fellow-beings, without our being able to find 
many opportunities of gratifying such a desire. Mrs. El- 
more had always been what the world calls a generous wo- 
man, that is, she never spurned from her door the poor and 
the needy, — she gave to charitable purposes, — she wished 
success to all the efforts of others to do good. But how dif- 
ferent now the motives of all her actions ! Before, she had 
been benevolent because it was respectable and becoming to 
be so, and the world approved of it. Now she did it for 
her Redeemer's sake. She read in the Bible that Christ 
saith, "He that giveth a cup of cold water only in the 
name of a disciple, shall in nowise lose his reward." "Inas- 
much as ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, 



TRUE RELIGION. 305 

ye have done it unto me." Now she looked upon the poor 
and suffering with feelings of deep and tender interest. She 
waited no longer for them to come to solicit her aid, but she 
sought them out in the narrow lanes and by-places, where 
the sad children of want and sorrow are wont to be crowded 
together in a large city. And oh, what spectacles from day 
to day met her astonished eyes ! Though she had always 
lived in a city, she had scarcely known any thing of the 
vast amount of wretchedness it conceals from the public 
eye. She had moved in the elegant circles of the great, — 
spent her mornings in the stores, turning over the costly 
merchandise, or rolled in her splendid equipage through the 
fashionable streets, and alighted at the door of some elegant 
mansion. 

Never had she refused to open her purse when, per- 
chance, some poor beggar met her eye and implored her 
charity. But of the utter poverty of thousands who pine 
for daily bread, — of the multitudes who are stretched on 
sick-beds, with no friendly hand to minister to their wants, 
who never know the blessing of the fresh, pure air of 
heaven, but in dark corners and close rooms are racked 
with pain and suffering, she never had any idea; and with a 
reproachful conscience and bitter tears, she remembered 
how little she had done for her suffering fellow-beings, with 
the wealth that God had given her. 

It was in one of her visits to the poor, that she entered 
the miserable dwelling of a poor woman who was almost 
gone with consumption. The sick woman looked up with 
an expression of surprise as Mrs. Elmore came into the 
room, as it was something very unusual for any one of re- 
spectable appearance to enter her wretched abode. The 
room was destitute of furniture, save two or three broken 
chairs, a rickety table, and the bed with its scanty covering 
on which lay the poor, distressed creature. Near the in- 
26* 



306 MISCELLANIES. 

valid stood a young girl whose eyes were red with weeping, 
and who seemed as attentive to her wants as their destitu- 
tion would allow. Mrs. Elmore turned with a look of kind- 
ness to the sick woman, and said, " I am very sorry to find 
you so ill, — how long have you been so ? " 

"It is wellnigh two years, ma'am, since I have been able 
to do any thing, and about six months since I have been 
.confined to this bed." 

"Is this young girl your daughter?" asked Mrs. Elmore. 
" Yes, ma'am, and a blessing from the Lord has she been 
to me, in this my weak and dreadful condition. Poor girl, 
she has given up all her earnings to make me comfortable, 
and often denied herself bread that she might get some 
little delicacy that she thought I could relish. The Lord 
bless her, the Lord bless her," said the sick woman, sobbing 
and wiping her eyes on the ragged sheet that covered her. 

" And surely the Lord will bless and take care of her," 
replied Mrs. Elmore, "for- great are the mercies he prom- 
ises to such faithful and affectionate children ; and in 
another world, if not in this, he will richly reward them for , 
their love and self-denial. Have you suffered much, my 
good woman, for the necessaries of life, since you have been 
sick?" 

" I ought not to complain," said she, " for I have had 
many more blessings than I deserve at the hand of my kind 
heavenly Father. I may truly say he has not left nor for- 
saken me. We have experienced the truth of his rich 
promises to the widow and the fatherless. After my poor 
husband died, ten years ago, I supported myself and my 
dear child by my work. Then I had health and strength to 
do hard work, for which I got good wages. Sometimes I 
would go out working every day in the week, but when 
Susan got pretty large, I wanted to bring her up to sewing, 
thinking in that way she could earn her living ; as she was 



TRUE RELIGION. 307 

not a very hearty child I did not like to send her out to ser- 
vice. And then, ma'am, I had another reason for wanting 
to keep her at home, for I knew by my own experience how 
many temptations there are for young girls to fall into sin 
and wrong doing, when they have no one to give them any 
good counsel, and no time to study their Bibles. So when 
Susan got large enough to sew, I stayed at home and took in 
plain sewing. In this way we earned enough to pay the 
rent of our room, to clothe ourselves comfortably, and buy 
the plain fare which we are satisfied with. But since I 
have been unable to work," here the sick woman paused, as 
if unwilling to proceed, when her kind visitor said, " Mar- 
garet, tell me how you have got along since, for I came to 
help you, and I shall be glad to know all the Lord's dealings 
with you." 

" I beg your pardon, my excellent lady, I w T ould not keep 
any thing from you, but I am so afraid of murmuring and 
repining against that good God who has thus far led me on, 
as I trust, toward his heavenly kingdom, when I speak of 
all our sufferings, that I do not often talk of them. But 
you know when I became sick it must have been hard for 
my poor Susan, by her work alone, to pay all our expenses. 
She would have the doctor come and see me sometimes, and 
buy medicines and cordials which he told her I needed. 
And then she had often to leave her work to nurse me, so 
that the dear child could not get much done in the day, but 
she would sit up and sew half the night to make out her 
day's work. But the fire wood cost so much, and there were 
so many things to be paid for out of her small earnings, that 
we soon saw it was impossible to stay in the room we then 
had, as the landlord said if we could not pay when the rent 
was due, he could find plenty of persons who could, and 
that we must shift our quarters. So we were obliged to 
move to this room, which was at first quite comfortably fur- 



308 MISCELLANIES. 

nished for us, but Susan's work would not even pay the 
small rent here, and get us food enough to eat, so the poor 
girl, from time to time, has sold one thing and another, till 
you see we have n't much of any thing left. Yesterday 
the landlord came for his rent, and she had to pay him what 
little money she could get ; since that, my kind lady, we 
have tasted no food. For myself," continued she, with a 
deep sigh, " I am not suffering, for this poor emaciated body 
will soon be beyond the want of food ; but for my poor child, 
if you know any thing of a mother's feelings, you will see 
that my heart is breaking." 

Here Mrs. Elmore interrupted her by opening her purse 
and giving Susan some money, saying to her, " Go immedi- 
ately and procure suitable food for your sick parent and for 
yourself." 

Susan courtesied, thanked the Christian lady with tears 
of joy, and left the room. When she had gone, Mrs. El- 
more begged the poor woman to continue her narrative, 
which she did by saying : — 

" Since yesterday morning we have had, as I was saying, 
no money to buy bread. The day passed on, and night 
came, bringing no prospect of any relief. Then I said to 
Susan, ' My child, I ask not that you should beg for me, but 
you must do it for yourself. I see no other way. Go, and 
God will direct you to some kind friend, who will take com- 
passion on you.' ' No,' said Susan, ' not for myself, mother, 
will I beg, but if you will eat, I will go to-night. I think 
to-morrow I can get some work done for which I shall be 
paid.' We concluded to wait till this morning, and many 
earnest prayers did we offer up together last night, that God 
would have mercy upon us and send us deliverance from 
our sufferings. And, my dear lady, let me assure you that 
a calm and pleasant feeling has been over me since, and I 
felt that our prayers were answered, and that he who feeds 



TRUE RELIGION. 309 

the young ravens when they cry, had not forgotten us, his 
starving children. I have had a strong feeling that some 
blessing was in store for us to-day ; and oh, may my weak 
faith be strengthened, and now I know that in sending you 
here God has answered the prayer of his poor servant." 

" My good woman," said Mrs. Elmore, " I, too, would bless 
God that he has put it in my heart to visit and relieve you ; 
and never shall I cease to thank him that he has enabled me 
to confer a single benefit on my suffering fellow-creatures." 

By this time Susan had returned, and before satisfying her 
own wants, she prepared some nourishment for her sick 
mother, w T ho, before partaking of it, raised her eyes to 
heaven in praise and thanksgiving to him who remembers 
the poor and needy. Mrs. Elmore rose, pressed affection- 
ately the hand of the invalid, saying, "I will come again 
soon and see you. Take this money, for your present 
necessities, and get with it whatever you need for your- 
self and child." And then taking from her bag a card, 
she wrote upon it plainly her address, and left it in case any 
thing more should be wanted, saying to Susan, " If I do not 
return before you have spent this money, come to my house 
and let me know what your poor mother needs ; " so saying, 
she bade them goodby, while both mother and daughter in- 
voked the blessings of heaven upon her, who had been to 
them indeed an angel of mercy. 

Mrs. Elmore proceeded on her way home with a feeling 
of happiness and peace of mind that she had never before 
known. She could now feel that wealth was a blessing 
only, when with it God gives a desire to confer favors on 
his poor children, and promote his glory. The condition of 
this poor family had awakened her mind to a sense of the 
sufferings of the poor in all large towns, and she resolved 
that so far as God should give her ability, she would relieve 
their sufferings. Her health, at all times delicate since her 



310 MISCELLANIES. 

severe affliction, did not allow her for several days again to 
visit the poor family. When she was able again to do so, 
she found the invalid no longer in need of earthly aid. As 
she entered the second time in the humble apartment, which 
she felt had been so sanctified by the Saviour's presence to 
his trusting and meek disciple, she found Margaret a corpse. 
Her submissive and chastened spirit had but a few moments 
before taken its everlasting flight to a world where she was 
to fear no more sorrow, — no more to feel the sharp stings 
of poverty, — where she would hunger and thirst no more, 
and where the inhabitants shall say, I am no more sick, and 
where God wipes away all tears. What signifies it, then, to 
her senseless clay, if she had for a few short years known 
only the bitterest dregs of the cup of life? What mattered 
it now to the wasted form that lay stretched out upon the 
hard bed, in the stiffness and repose of death, if she had 
been spurned by the proud worldling, worn the coarse 
garb, and eaten the plainest and most scanty food of pov- 
erty ? Ah, my young friend, you see death comes alike to 
all, rich and poor, young and old, happy and miserable. 
This short dream of life is soon over with all, and when our 
last moment comes, and we are about to enter upon an eter- 
nal state, as we review our lives on earth, it will then seem 
as of no importance whether we have lived in a palace or a 
hovel, whether we have been courted and admired by the 
great, or toiled and labored for a hard-earned subsistence 
with the lowly poor. The question with us then will be, 
Have we made Christ our friend, have our sins been washed 
away in his atoning blood, our hearts sanctified and purified 
by his Holy Spirit, and are we ready and willing to leave 
this world of sin and sorrow, in the joyful hope of " a house 
not made with hands," where we shall join the angels and 
archangels, and all the heavenly host in anthems of praise 
to him who has redeemed us from eternal death and made 



TRUE RELIGION. 311 

us heirs of heaven ? If we can answer yes, to this question, 
as sweetly will our parting spirit bid farewell to earth, and 
wing its flight to heaven from an humble abode like that of 
Margaret's, as from the richly furnished apartment from 
which death summons away the rich from his riches. Let 
it then be your object, my dear young friends, to live now 
while you are in youth and health, in such a manner as will 
give you peace in that last dreadful hour. 

Mrs. Elmore found Susan leaning over the lifeless body 
of her mother, and sobbing as if her heart would break. 
Well might the poor girl weep, for the only friend she had 
on earth had been taken from her, and she was an orphan, 
poor and wretched. Mrs. Elmore kindly took her by the 
hand, bade her be calm, and think of her departed parent as 
having finished all her trials on earth and gone to her 
heavenly rest. She talked to her of submission to God's 
will, and found the poor girl gave evidence of deep and sin- 
cere piety. 

" Would you recall your parent again to this world if you 
had the power?" said Mrs. Elmore. 

" Oh no," sobbed the heart-stricken girl, " not for the 
world, if I could. I rejoice that she will never suffer any 
more, that she has gone to her Saviour. But oh," she 
continued, " if I could only have died with her; — 'tis so 
hard to live all alone in this cold world ! Why will not God 
take me too?" 

" My child," said her kind friend, " try to submit yourself 
to God's holy will. He does all things well. He spares 
you for wise purposes, and he will surely take care of you. 
If you love to read his holy word you will find it full of 
comfort and consolation to you, and full of the richest prom- 
ises to the poor and fatherless. Do you not remember the 
psalm where David says so beautifully, 'I have been young, 
and now am old ; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, 



312 MISCELLANIES. 

nor their seed begging bread/ Cast thy burden then, dear 
child, upon the Lord, and he will sustain thee." 

"Oh, my dear lady," exclaimed Susan, "precious indeed 
is God's word to my heart ; and were it not for this, I could 
not bear up under my trouble." 

Mrs. Elmore then told Susan that she must return home ; 
but that she would send some one who would attend to the 
preparations for the burial of her mother, bidding her, as 
soon as all should be over, to come to her house, where she 
would provide work for her, and see that all her wants were 
supplied. The thankful girl blessed her kind-hearted friend, 
and promised to do as she had requested. 

I must ask iny young readers to accompany me back to 
Mrs. Elmore's handsome mansion, where they will again 
meet with Susan. As her benefactress had promised, she 
had received Susan when she no longer could call even 
the humble abode in which she had been left, lone and 
sorrowful, a home. She welcomed the poor orphan, clothed 
her in a decent robe of mourning, and gave her a snug little 
room, and though she did not need her services, she kept 
her quite busy in sewing; for she knew that none are happy 
who are not diligent, and industrious, and useful. Mrs. El- 
more gave her good wages for her work, and as Susan had 
now none but herself to provide for, and besides had no de- 
sire for gay and costly clothes, she soon found she had 
money enough in her purse to provide herself all the little 
comforts she needed, and to do something for the poor, whose 
hard fate she well knew by her own sad experience how to 
compassionate. She loved, with her warm, gentle heart, her 
excellent mistress, and felt so grateful for all she had done 
for her, that she studied every little way by which she might 
be useful to the family who protected and sheltered her. 

Whenever her mistress was sick, Susan was always at her 
side, where she proved so kind and affectionate a nurse, so 



TRUE RELIGION. 313 

faithful, so ready, so devoted, that Mrs. Elmore soon learned 
to love the poor child she protected, not only as a faithful 
servant, but as a true and sincere friend. There was a soft- 
ness and, refinement about Susan that we very seldom see in 
those who have never known any thing but poverty and 
toil. Her voice was low and sweet, her manners gentle and 
affable. Respect for her kind mistress, and the deepest 
gratitude for all that she had done for her, showed itself in 
all her actions. She had that ready tact about her that led 
her to do every thing just as one would wish it done. If 
any thing was wanted, Susan was always ready. Her man- 
ner was so gentle and obliging that all who saw her felt in- 
terested in her. She had the religion of Jesus in her heart, 
and it seemed to pervade her whole being, and to give birth 
to all those Christian virtues and graces that cluster together 
in rich profusion, like the flowers and fruits of the tropics. 
She was faithful, sincere, humble, and ready to oblige all- 
in Mrs. Elmore's mansion we will now leave her, where 
she still continues to lead a useful and happy life, serving 
faithfully her benefactress, who still seeks out the poor and. 
suffering ; and like her Redeemer, lives to do good, and< 
spends her time and wealth in benefiting her fellow- 
creatures. 

Dear reader, is not piety a beautiful treasure ? Is it not 
the pearl of great price ? Would you not be willing to part 
with all you possess, if it were necessary, to obtain it ? 
Have you not seen how it supported Mrs. Clinton on her 
dying bed, and made it to her a pillow of peace ? Have 
you not felt, as in imagination you have stood beside the 
couch of poor Margaret, that it could light up even such 
an abode of poverty and suffering with a glory more beauti- 
ful than that of the sun, when amid the gold and purple of 
his setting he throws his last rich radiance on mountain, 
valley, and streamlet ? Have you not seen, too, how it caa 
27 



314 MISCELLANIES. 

sanctify wealth, and make it a source of the richest comforts 
to its possessors, when they have, like Mrs. Elmore, a heart 
to seek out the heart-broken, and bind up their wounds, to 
clothe the naked, feed the hungry, and point the penitent 
sinner to the " Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the 
world ? " Have you not seen how it can fill the soul with 
sweet peace, when stripped of what it most loved on earth, 
and that it could enable the lovely lady of whom I have told 
you to exclaim, when her sweet Emma was torn from her, 
" It is the Lord that giveth, and taketh away ; blessed be 
the name of the Lord." 



END, 



NEW WORKS AND NEW EDITIONS 

PUBLISHED BY 

WHITTEMORE, NILES, AND HALL, 

No. 114 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON. 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. p RICE 

Franklin's Works. Edited by Jared Sparks, LL. D. A New Edi- 
tion. 10 vols. 8vo. 22 Plates. Cloth. $ 15.00 

Do. do. Half calf, gilt. 25.00 

Do. Life. By Jared Sparks, LL.D. A New Edition. 1 vol. 
8vo. 3 Plates. Cloth. 1.50 

Do. do. Half calf, gilt. 2.50 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

Klosterheim ; or the Masque. A Novel. By Thomas De Quin- 
cey, Author of " Confessions of an English Opium-Eater." With a 
Biographical Preface, by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie. 1 vol. 16nio. 
Cloth. .75 

" It contains some of the finest tokens of De Quincey's genius." — Christian 
Examiner. 

" We have read it at least three times, and still find our mind as chained as 
ever by the magic genius that glows on every page." — New York Day-Book. 

" In brilliancy of style, vigor of conception, and skill in the treatment, Klos- 
terheim is worthy of Mr. De Quincey's rich and varied powers. Indeed, the 
tremendous force of his imagination is more apparent, we think, in this work, 
than in almost any of his other writings. The Biographical Notice by Dr. 
Mackenzie is worthy of special commendation." — Boston Traveller. 

" We do not hesitate to affirm that it is much more readable than some of his 
pet productions, while it is quite as instructive. It would be known at once, if 
it appeared anonymously, as the work of a man of learning and imaginative 
power." — Boston Morning 1 Post. 

" One of the most remarkable productions of one of the most remarkable men 
of the age." — J. O. Saxe, in Burlington Sentinel. 

JOHN STERLING. 

The Onyx Ring, a Tale. By John Sterling. With a Bio- 
graphical Preface, by Charles Hale. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. .75 

" One of the richest and best productions of a truly good and gifted man, a 
man in whose praise it is sufficient to say that he gained in his short life the en- 
thusiastic reverence and love of Julius Hare and Thomas Carlyle. This « onyx ■ 
is a true jewel, refreshing to human eyes. The value of the story lies in its 
pure, deep sympathy with all that is best and most hopeful in human life. By 
virtue of his magic ring, the hero of the narrative enters into the consciousness 
of the various men about him, learns their power and their weakness, and is 



2 WHITTEMORE, NILES, AND HALL'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 

glad at last to be himself, and to do and suffer and rejoice as God meant he 
should. The light of a sweet, genial, loving spirit streams out from the page, 
as the mystic brightness gleamed from the gem. Mr. Hale's opening sketch of 
the author's life will be very useful and acceptable to the general reader." — 
Christian Examiner. 

" In fiction Sterling was happy, but deeply philosophic, and the Onyx Ring is 
filled with gems of thought as brilliant and as enduring as any in our language. 
Read it, lover of the beautiful, the sublime, the good, — read it, moralist ; it con- 
veys a thousand golden ideas, and having read it you will appreciate his charac- 
ter." — Intelligencer. 

" Those who are not acquainted with Sterling need not hesitate to buy thts 
beautiful creation of his brilliant mind." — F, D. Huntington, in Monthly Magazine, 

EDMOND ABOUT. 

Tolla, a Tale of Modern Rome. By Edmond About. 1 vol. 
16mo. Cloth. .75 

" With the glow and passion of Roman life in every page, dealing with a point 
of morals hard to describe without passing the proper boundaries of domestic 
romance, this story is as pure in tone as the ' Yicar of Wakefield.'" — London 
AthencBum. 

a In style, tone, and incident, it assimilates with the more artistic and pure 
school of romance ; a deep candor of feeling, and a chaste simplicity rare in 
French writers, make * Tolla ' worthy of a place beside ' Picciola,' ' Monaldi,' 
* The Onyx Ring,' and other select works of narrative, grace, and beauty. No 
analysis of the story would convey an idea of its quiet charm, which can only 
be fully realized by a perusal of the whole." — Transcript. 

W. E. ALGER. 

The Poetry of the East. By Rev. William Rounseville Algeb. 
16mo. Cloth. 1.00 

TRIFLETON PAPERS. By Trifle and the Editor. 16mo. Cloth. .75 

J. G. LOCKHART. 

Ancient Spanish Ballads, Historical and Romantic. Translated, 
with an Introduction and Notes, by J. G. Lockhart. With a Bi- 
ographical Notice. 1 vol. 16mo. Cloth. .63 

RICHARD HILDRETH. 

The White Slave, or Memoirs of a Fugitive. 8 Engravings. 12mo. 
Cloth. 1.00 

MRS. CORNELIUS. 

The Young Housekeeper's Friend: or, A Guide to Domestic Econo- 
my and Comfort. By Mrs. H. M. Cornelius. 12mo. Half cloth. .38 
Same work, cloth. .50 

Mrs. Eliza Farrar, the author of the "Young Ladies' Friend," in a notice of 
this book, says : " A person wholly ignorant of household affairs may, by a 
diligent perusal of this book, become an accomplished housekeeper, and even 
practical housewives will find this a valuable hand-book. I expect to profit by 
its counsels, and intend that those who cook for me in future shall take it for 
their manual." 

CHARLES SWAIN. 

Poems. By Charles Swain. With an Introduction to the 
American Edition. By the Author. 16mo. 



WHITTEMORE, NILES, AND HALL'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 3 

JOTHAM SEWALL. 

Memoir of the Rev. Jotham Sewall, of Chesterville, Maine, with a 
Portrait. By his Son, Rev. Jotham Sewall. 12mo. Cloth. 1.00 

EMERSON DAVIS, D.D., and MARK HOPKINS, D.D. 

The Half-Century: or, A History of Changes that have taken 
place, and Events that have transpired, between 1800 and 1850. By 
Emerson Davis, D. D. With an Introduction, by Mark Hop- 
kins, D. D. 1.00 

JOHN WARE, M.D. 

Hints to Young Men on the True Relation of the Sexes. By John 
"Ware, M. D. Prepared at the request of a Committee of Gentle- 
men. 18mo. Flexible cloth. .25 

SAMUEL LEECH. 

Thirty Years from Home. Being the Experience of Samuel Leech 
in the British and American Navies, the Merchant Service, &c. 
4 Engravings. 18mo. Cloth. .38 

L. C. MUNN. 

The American Orator : with an Appendix, containing the Decla- 
ration of Independence, with the fac-simile of the Autographs of the 
Signers ; the Constitution of the United States ; Washington's Fare- 
well Address, and fac-similes of the Autographs of several hundred 
distinguished Individuals. By L. C. Munn. Third Edition. 12mo. 
Cloth. 1.00 

DAILY FOOD FOR CHRISTIANS. 

Being a Promise and another Scriptural Portion for every Day in 

the Year. 

Best edition, with a steel plate, cloth, paper title, .10 

11 " " " « " gilt back, .15 

" " " " " " gilt edges, gilt sides, .20 

" " Four steel plates, cloth, full gilt, and gilt edges, .31 

" morocco, .38 

THE HARPSICHORD, OR UNION COLLECTION 
OF CHURCH MUSIC. 

By Leonard Marshall, and Henry N. Stone. .75 

THE HOSANNA. 

A New Collection of Church Music. By Leonard Marshall, 
Author of " The Harpsichord." .75 

THE SACRED OFFERING. 

A Tableau of Remarkable Incidents in the Old and New Testa- 
ments, being a series of Original Articles by Distinguished American 
Writers. With Illustrations. Large 12mo. Morocco, extra. 1.50 

A most beautiful gift-book for all seasons. 



4 -WHITTEMOEE, NILES, AND HALL'S NEW PUBLICATIONS. 

JUVENILE. 

ELIZA LEE FOLLEN. 

Twilight Stories. A New Series of Stories for Children. By Mrs. 
Follen, Author of " Nursery Songs." With Illustrations from De- 
signs by Billings. 6 vols. Neatly bound and put up in box. 1.50 

Or separately, 25 cents each ; viz. True Stories about Dogs and 
Cats. — Made-up Stories. — The Pedler of Dust Sticks. — The Old 
Garret, Parts I., II., and III. 

Little Songs, illustrated with above fifty pictures. Square 16mo. .38 

JULIA KAVANAGH. 

Saint-Gildas, or the Three Paths. A Story for Boys. By Julia 
Kavanagh, Author of "Nathalie." With Illustrations. 16mo. 
Cloth, gilt. * .63 

" A very interesting juvenile tale by one of the most popular female writers of 
modern times." — New York Commercial Advertiser. 

ANNA HARRIET DRURY. 

The Blue Eibbons. A Story of the Last Century. By Miss Dkury, 
Author of "Friends and Fortune." With Illustrations. 16mo. 
Cloth, gilt. .50 

" This is the history of a little French boy, who raised flowers to sell, and 
whose grandmother had told him so many Fairy Stories, that he was always 
wishing and hoping that a Fairy would appear to him, and give him some charm 
that would relieve his sweet sister, and poor, old, infirm grandmother, of the sore 
load of poverty that rested upon them. One day he was walking in the royal 
woods, and thinking (aloud) of what he would do if a Fairy should appear, when 
suddenly the beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette appeared before him, with a 
little walking wand in her hand. He thought she was a Fairy, and spoke to her 
as such, and she gave him a bunch of blue ribbons from her dress as a talisman, 
and bade him wear them when he took his flowers to market next day. Then 
follow a great many pretty incidents, and some sad ones, all charmingly told, 
and the story ends at last very happily for everybody, except the poor, beautiful, 
unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette." — Little Pilgrim. 

LIZZIE AMORY. 

Little Paul and other Stories. By Lizzie Amory. With Illus- 
trations. 16mo. Cloth, gilt. .38 
" Containing seven highly interesting stories for children, told in an unambi- 
tious style, and inculcating sound moral precepts." 

THE SISTERS ABROAD, 

Or a Summer in Italy. By a Lady of Boston. Illustrated. 16mo. 

ANNE W. ABBOTT. 

The Evergreen Chaplet. A Collection of Tales for Children. By 
Anne W. Abbott. With Illustrations. 18mo. Cloth, gilt. .31 

T. D. P. STONE. 

Stories to Teach me to Think. A Series of Juvenile Tales. By 
T. D. P. Stone. With Illustrations. 18mo. Cloth, gilt. .31 

THE LIVES OF CELEBRATED CHILDREN. 

Abounding in interesting Historical Events. 18mo. Cloth, gilt. .31 



H I37 80 




.H^ 



0>^ : 
F *« 



^ ^ .J§3K3* ^ <£ *-' 



» 








v^ °^ffM- ^^ *MWA» ***** 



-j>^ 



iVA. 






*- v-^^ v ^hbf jT** -.: 



.a?* * ^S^Wn"^* *?' i . ~ * ft/firs?*? 





e*^ •WMF* A V ^ 









* ...,v !S V v*£V 



• • • .aV <i>- 




^ *o • » * <«\ 




<". **...♦ .6 



